


The Targaryen Restoration

by TheTargaryenHarlot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, Half-Sibling Incest, Harems, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Multi, Politics, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTargaryenHarlot/pseuds/TheTargaryenHarlot
Summary: In the aftermath of the War of the False Dragon, House Targaryen is on the precipice of extinction. Emperor Jonothor, First of His Line, has solemnly sworn to see his dynasty restored, taking to wife his sister, Rhaenys, and aunt, Daenerys. After five years of marriage, only two heirs have been given birth to.The Last Dragon grows concerned, but his wife has come with a solution.As their ancestor once turned back east to restore their legacy, mayhaps the time has now come to look westwards, to new lands, to new bounties.And to new wives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A stand-alone fic, inspired by my friend's 'ShakespeareanMusings' universe. I got his explicit permission to post this work inspired by his universe. While his has politics, war, and all that annoyingly complex stuff going on for him, this is just straight out porn. There's no use beating around the bush. Can't be bothered with writing intricacies lmao.
> 
> All the plot points that do arise from this story are all created by my dear friend. He writes the plot, I write the porn that comes along. What a beautiful pair we make, no?

**The Targaryen Restoration**

_In the year of our Restorer Y300 After The Restoration, a new era dawned upon the Holy Valyrian Empire. Jonothor Targaryen, First of His Line, Holy Valyrian Emperor and Sovereign of the Nine Cities, had taken the bloodied crown of his brother and father, climbed up the dais and sat the most powerful throne in the Known World. With the help of his three dragons, Lyaxes, Rhaegal and Aegonax, he smote his opponents upon the cliffs during the brutal War of the False Dragons, a conflict which had ravaged the Empire for five years. Emperor Jonothor finally brought peace and stability to a land torn by war and conflict for so long and so grievously._

_The war did not go without its toll; House Targaryen had dwindled to a handful of scions, with only Emperor Jonothor, his sister, Rhaenys, and his aunt, Daenerys, as the remnants of their once illustrious dynasty. Determined to not allow his name and bloodline to fall into oblivion, Emperor Jonothor, as per the Valyrian tradition, took his elder sister, Rhaenys, to wife, then as the Valyrians did not, he also took his aunt, Daenerys, to ensure the continuance of his lineage._

_Both his sister and his aunt were otherworldly beautiful creatures; so magnificent, any man or woman who gazed upon them would find themselves at an utter loss of words, blinded and awestruck. Yet, their beauty did not result in many children; three years of marriage had only bred two heirs, the Princes Aegon and Rhaegar. While Emperor Jonothor loved his wives dearly and his sons even more, he was poised with a conundrum if this situation was not solved. House Targaryen was in desperate need of more heirs._

_So, his wife Daenerys came with a solution._

_If Jonothor wanted his seed to flourish wide and quick, he only ever needed to spread it more oft._

_Not only in them, but in multiple consorts._

_And so began the Targaryen Conquest._

_A conquest to find fertile ‘lands’ so the dragons could come again._

* * *

 

**DRAGONSTONE**

**JON**

The isle of Dragonstone was shrouded in a chilling mist that hung low and wide across its expanse. Only small beams of the sun above was allowed purchase, and the scenery around was one of mystery, of silence. Of slumber.

The morrow was coming languidly, but already, the coos of doves and caws of seagulls were permeating the air, twittering all denizens of Dragonstone awake from their slumber with a gentle chorus. There was a nip in the air, a sign that the mist would most likely make way for rains later in the day. Today was a day filled with little obligations then, and so, the three Targaryens decided to spend their time within the warm confines of their castle.

There were few certainties in Jon’s life that he knew left him content and happy on Dragonstone; riding Lyaxes through the cold clouds and chafing winds was one of them. Another was crossing Blackfyre with a worthy adversary, proving and testing his mettle against great warriors that had come all the way to his seat just for the chance of entertaining him. At least, for Jon it was an entertainment; for those foolish enough to challenge him, it was an endeavour of folly.

Many had arrived in Dragonstone to challenge the Last Dragon, whether in the hopes of claiming his wives if he died, or the simple glory that came with slaying a man of his repute. Nary a man ever left with the sweetness of victory on their lips.

But what gave Jon most satisfaction was having his sons Egg and Gar in the crook of his arms and telling them wild stories of fire-breathing dragons, wriggling sea-monsters and legendary quests, and then revel in their excited laughter at each twist of tale he came up with.

What could a man find more pleasing than hearing his little whelps roar as they emulated Balerion or Vermithor?

“Oh gods…Ah…Oh _gods_ , Jon, have mer– _Ah!”_

Besides hearing their wife sigh in pure ecstasy during a bout of fucking? 

“That’s it, Jon, Rhae has been long due for a good release. Be a good brother-husband and fuck her senseless until she’s reduced to a mere babbling lackwit.”

Correction,  _wives_.

The featherbed inside the lord’s chamber of Dragonstone was creaking obscenely with each hard thrust as three naked bodies piled on top of it, sweat dripping down their backs, arms, faces and every part of their wet and rubbing bodies. Grunts and moans intermixed with each other, and the air around the chamber was so pungent and strong with the smell of sex, the whores in Yunkai and Lys would blush at this raw show of wantonness. Each second that passed, fleshy slaps echoed off the walls, never ceasing in strength, only growing. And growing. And _growing_. 

Jon kept his jaws skewered tight as he loomed over Rhaenys, her legs spread to the sides and her knees pushed into the cushions of their bed. Jon was thrusting into her tight cunt with abandon, his right hand clutching her hip so hard, Jon was sure he was going to leave purple bruises on his sister’s voluptuous body. She would not mind, Jon knew; Rhae loved it when their coupling left her bow-legged and sore throughout the day.

His other hand had found purchase in her swarthy mane of curly hair, pressing his fingers into the back of her head and forcing her to look him in the eye while he was in the act of bedding her with sterling passion. Her hands, in turn, dug into his arms, her nails lightly scraping across the length of his arms. She was sure to leave so many lines behind after this; badges of honour, as far as Jon was concerned.

Underneath him was a mesmerizing sight to behold; her olive skin was drenched in copious sweat and blotched a darker shade than her usual Dornish tint. Rhae was flushed pink with sweet pleasure and she kept writhing salaciously under his attention, her mind completely under the spell of bliss. Her full lips were slightly parted in a small gasp, screaming silently in delight at the way she was being taken. She and Jon had been in the throes of passion for nearly four hours now.

As Jon kept on going, a drop of sweat started crawling down his face from all the thrusting and the strain of keeping his muscles taut and solid. It hung on the edge of his jaw before its tether to his skin broke and it plummeted right on top of Rhae’s upper lip. Her tongue poked out and swiped the sweat away.

Surely, his cock had turned as hard as Valyrian steel at the arousing action.

Rhae’s high breasts, which were soft, full, tanned and perfect for his sons to suckle from, kept on bouncing as he drove into her. They reminded Jon of bakers throwing up and down their plump pieces of dough. Motherhood had been very kind to his lovely sister.

Each thrust he delivered into Rhae’s cunt was met in tandem by one of her own, allowing him to sheathe his cock deeper, deeper, and _deeper_ inside her, searching that sweet spot that was buried so far inside her tightness.

“My, you seem especially convinced to throw your beloved sister into that abyss of pleasure.” Dany purred into his ear sinfully, tingling the lobe, her hands roaming the rippled expanse of his chest and abdomen while she pressed her naked breasts against his back. Her searing breath made Jon growl loudly, making him increase his pace.

“Fuck, Jon!”

Jon knew his sister was built for a little rough play, so he did not grow concerned when she cursed out his name to all the gods above, while he, for all intent and purpose, hammered into her. It was as if he was possessed by some potent love charm of a siren, who then commanded him to breed his charmer until the rays of dawn came creeping up the horizon. If that was so, then Jon obliged with much enthusiasm.

Rhae’s wet folds clamped down on his cock with a desperation he was all too familiar with; it had been far too long since he had bred his sister, something he was now trying to beg forgiveness for. 

“These previous moon turns, I’ve seen…” He cut himself off with a grunt. “…my lovely sister work herself to the bone trying to rebuild our empire. This is the least…” Her fingers dug deeper, almost threatening to pierce his skin. “…I can do for her to show her my love.” Jon growled while he peered deep into Rhae’s indigo eyes, slowing down his cadence a little to get a proper look. Jon glanced at Rhae with deep adoration, willing his eyes to convey the love he had for her. In answer, his sister’s eyes gleamed back at him lovingly, her soft lips curled into a tender smile, and _oh,_ what it did to a man to see a woman look back at them with sheer lust and adoration. His cock hardened further if that was evenpossible.

He would never replace Aegon in her heart, he knew, and neither did Jon wish to; their love was different. Their love was born of desperation, solace and trust. Jon only wished to mend the gaping wound in her heart that was Aegon’s demise as best as he could, not replace him.

No soul could hope to replace his valiant brother.

Jon’s shoulder tingled, feeling Dany’s lips against the hardness of his muscles pull into a smirk, her warm and dripping tongue then dragging alongside the strained cords of his neck approvingly.

If he was not so used and experienced in indulging his two wives sexually, Jon was sure this moment right here would be the death of him. He would not mind it in the slightest if one day he would die like this.

Their tryst kept going like this for a while; Jon vigorously pounding into his sister, Rhae squirming underneath him while singing an entire prayer of filth and endearments, and Dany wantonly grating her front against his back. The nubs of her little nipples were grazing him, her soft hands kneading, caressing and pinching his torso, causing Jon’s blood to boil hot, liquid wildfire pumping through his veins. It was the filthiest sex he had had in a long while.

“Fuck, I’m close.” Jon growled laboriously, leaning forward to squeeze his body against hers, pulling his aunt with him, who yelped in delight at the sudden jerk downwards. Rhae’s round and jumping teats were crushed against his heaving chest as Jon crashed his mouth against hers in a deeply thirsty kiss after tucking her face towards him, swallowing down her lewd moans. The drum of her heartbeat pounded as strongly as his, telling the other of the candour of this coupling; pure and unadulterated passion that made the heart race and soar.

The taste of his sister was spicy and strong on the slope of his tongue, heady enough to make him feel dizzy and lose his wits about, her flavour as hot and inebriating as the wine her Rhoynish blood relatives in Dorne served and brewed.

Rhaenys absolutely loved kissing, moaning into each one of them with glee. Whenever Jon gave her one, she would lose all sense of self and put the pillow warmers in Lys to shame with the musical sounds coming out of her throat. She would turn into another person entirely; nothing like the dignified consort to the mightiest man alive, but a high-priced bed slave whose only goal in life was to please her master.

Again, Jon began picking up his pace as a knot at the pit of his stomach was about to unfold. “I’m close…to nearing…my peak.”

“Yes…!” She drawled out, moaning, forcefully wrenching away her mouth from his. “Keep thrusting–Oh!” Jon could feel that Dany had unwrapped herself from his back, missing the heat and softness of her perky teats like a warm skin. But then, as if to compensate for that loss, he felt his sister’s legs that went on for leagues snake around his waist, burying him even deeper inside Rhaenys, and to make matters worse, or better rather, her walls enclosed upon his length almost painfully, intending to throttle out all the seed he had stored inside his balls. Jon’s growl made his throat and chest reverberate at the suffocating feeling. “Breed your sister and make me– _Ah_! round with your child again!”

And he did just that as his hand wandered to one of her legs to unlatch it from his waist so he could throw its supple length over his shoulder, hooking her knee and pressing her calf against his shoulder plate, and started slamming without scruples into his gorgeous sister’s cunt. Jon leaned in just _so_ , that the angle he was fucking Rhaenys caused him to slam their pelvises even more against each other than before. The wet sound of skin hitting skin intensified tenfold. To Jon, it was the most beautiful sound in the world at the moment.

And then, unbidden and much too soon for his liking, Jon felt himself spilling his seed, roaring thunderously and calling out Rhae’s name before he claimed her mouth for his own in a searing kiss that left him, and her without a doubt, devoid of any thought other than their peak. While he was busy spilling inside his sister, Rhae’s perfect cunt pulled taut as well, milking him of his seed even further.

His vision went blank for five seconds long before the world bled into colour again, little stars winking at him no more. Jon kept smothering Rhae’s whines of utter bliss, exploring the cave of her mouth and lapping up her sweet spittle like it was a river and he a parched man wandering in a desert for days on end. Their pelvises came to rest against each other, and Jon pressed himself firmly against Rhae as he rode out his peak with small shudders.

When they came down their high, they parted their once fused lips, and Jon kept his eyes locked on Rhae, looking at her intently.

“Did that please you, my sweet sister?” He asked with glinting eyes, caressing Rhae’s bruised lip tenderly with the pad of his thumb. Jon knew the answer, though it never hurt to assuage his virility that he pleased his great sister so thoroughly. Rhae smirked between pants in answer as they both rose, locked in a tight embrace still, Jon coming to sit on his haunches while his arms carried Rhae’s light weight. She sealed their lips again in a wet, toe-curling and cock-hardening Dornish kiss, before nuzzling his nose a little, giggling like a maiden.

“Our ancestors…” She wheezed, her smiling face a beautiful pink mess, sweat trickling down her temple in rivulets. “…would be…” Another pant, her generous bosom rising and falling, mere inches away from his chest. It distracted Jon, and his once flaccid cock stirred like a dragon from slumber, so he pressed a hand against her smooth back so their chest once again met. “…very proud of you.”

Jon grinned. Of that, he had no doubts about it.

With utmost care, Jon placed his beloved sister back into their bed, kissing her full lips one final time in parting before leaving her to her rest. Though the morn had arrived, there was no rush today in dealing with courtly affairs. His lovely sister could afford some leisure at last.

Rhaenys was still not completely recovered, throwing an arm over her eyes, her lovely breasts still erratically rising and falling. Jon had sated her well into her bones, and he felt a surge of pride course through him at the sight of his stupefied sister smiling at the ceiling. Seeing his seed trickle out of her cunt a little only exacerbated that. He threw a sheet over her sweaty body before making it to the table and pouring himself a large amount of water.

“I hope I’m not forgotten, my love?”

Never. Jon could never forget about her. How could he? It would be an insult to the gods to forget Dany. No, Jon did not in the least bit forget about the lovely silver-haired woman sprawled on the divan, draped in rich purple silks only and looking at him through her thick snowy eye-lashes with the hunger of a proper dragon eying her prey. He only needed to have some water inside him.

Their fucking had left him bereft of his strength, and he needed something to douse the dryness of his mouth. Rhae’s taste was not enough, as much as he wished it was. Jon had supped at her cunt way earlier in their rutting, and he reckoned she could not handle his tongue feasting on her slit at the moment. Dany, however, had remained patient, only taking him a few times in comparison to Rhae. She was a generous lover, his silver wife. Rhae was particularly exhausted these days, Jon and Dany had noted. So, they decided to spoil their lovely kin.

While Jon was the husband in their polyamorous marriage, it was Dany who took the lead the first few moons in. Rhaenys was stilling reeling back from Aegon’s death, and Jon had yet to come to terms with the death of his mother. Both of them had lost someone they loved dearly, even if different in nature. All of them had lost so much during the civil war; Father, Uncle Aemon, Mother, Egg, Viserys. A painful pang hit Jon as bits of his mother’s beautiful smile come to his eyes, which seemed a lifetime ago, now forever lost to him.

For his sister, Egg meant the world. He was to her what Dany meant to him; the other half of her soul. After he died in a deadly clash of fire and blood against the False Dragon to buy their family time to escape, in vain sadly, Rhaenys was inconsolable for a fortnight long. Jon was not much different after he heard who else had died at the hands of that pretender, Daemon Brightfyre. He had nearly torn down and destroyed every stone in New Valyria in his wrath when news reached him that his beloved mother, Lyanna Stark, had died at the hands of that filthy usurper spawn of rape. Daemon Brightfyre, his godsforsaken father Illyrio and that eunuch fool Varys had burnt long and painfully for their treason. Jon had made his promise on that sure.

And as the cloud of dust had settled, the Empire was left with no choice but to stitch up a realm bleeding through a hundred wounds.

It was Dany who first picked up the shards of their broken lives again. It was she that breathed life again in Rhaenys after she forcefully made her way inside her chambers and raved at her in tears for killing her aunt softly by making her watch haplessly as Rhaenys forced herself to rot away in grief.

It was she who tampered and calmed down his nigh-uncontrollable fury, a loving hand that caressed the face of a bereaved son, his olive branch, soothing his soul enough for the chilling grief to set in, by which she then took him in her arms and comforted Jon until they both fell asleep on the marble floor, tear-stricken but at peace.

Daenerys Targaryen was sent by the gods that day; if not for her, Rhae would have died of heartbreak, and Jon would have been consumed by his unholy fury.

_No, I would never forget the godsend that is Daenerys Targaryen._

“If the day comes that I commit such a heinous transgression as forgetting you, shackle me with the heaviest chains in the world and throw my foolish arse into the sea for my insolence.”

Dany laughed openly, throwing her head back in mirth at his poor attempt of romantic jest. She rose from the divan, the purple-red silks sliding off her sculptured body like ribbons of fire, letting them pool beneath her beautiful porcelain legs. And then she swayed towards him, with the sexual confidence of a whore, but the grace of a queenly courtesan. Every step she took was a seduction, and Jon was too weak a man to find ways to resist her.

Dany pressed her lithe form against Jon, her chin resting against his sternum as she simpered up to him. Jon could feel every inch of her, licentious thoughts invading his mind as a result. Her small but firm tits, her flat stomach, her wide hips meant for bearing many children. And then her face…

Her face was all innocent and sultry at the same time.

“I’d rather not. Who else would then father my children if you’re too busy sinking to the depths?” She tittered prettily, hands already gliding up and down his body slick with sweat before coming to wrap around his length. Jon, in turn, was preoccupied in fondling her supple backside, squeezing each cheek with a gratified hum.

Rhaenys was blessed with fuller breasts, but Daenerys had wider hips, and a plumper arse; if not her beautiful face, than surely her backside made many heads turn.

To his surprise, Dany started to go down on her knees, and Jon’s cock twitched in anticipation. He stopped her, though, despite knowing the heavenly thing she was about to do.

A deep chuckle filtered out of Jon’s mouth when he saw the surprise bleed across her face. Jon clasped her elbows and stopped Dany from intending to take him in her mouth. “Not this time, my love; I’m slick enough to slide inside you with ease. I won’t survive your mouth.”

Her answer was a cheeky grin. “Oh, but you would if it were my cunt?”

A very good contention.

One Jon knew could not be answered duly.

In a flurry, Jon lifted his stunning aunt by her backside, causing her to squeal in excitement as she whirled her arms around his neck. Jon had two options now; one, he could fuck her like this, spear into her glistening cunt while standing. His cock would be buried the deepest like this and bring him the filthiest pleasure. In contrast to Rhae, Dany was perfect for this, as she was petite enough to be holstered up, Jon’s arms hooked beneath her knees and his hands holding on to her rear as he pounded into her womanly heat.

The other option demanded less endurance, and Jon found himself leaning towards that choice; the exertion would not be so mountainous; Jon already felt himself grow less and less able to have his manhood up after each peak. Four hours of sating both his wives started to catch up to him.

“How would you like to take me then, sweet Jon?” Dany cooed seductively, nibbling on his ear as she did; there was nothing innocent in her question, however. Nor was there anything innocent to her actions. Her smooth stomach grazed up and down his cock, giving him the delightful friction he so craved.

With a growl, Jon made for the divan. “I want to take you like a wolf.”

A silver eyebrow she raised as an answer, her eyes coy and gleaming. “A wolf? But we are dragons, my love. I know not how wolves mate. Would you be so gracious to show me?”

He knew Dany loved playing a mummery. Relished in acting like some pure little maiden about to get properly debauched, her head filled with nary a sinful idea. Nothing could be farther from the truth; in the first few moons of their marriage, it was Jon who blushed like a maiden.

And in time, Daenerys had changed him into a stallion.

With another growl, Jon placed Dany on the divan and flipped her so her beautiful and well-rounded arse faced him. She was on all fours, flush and reddened, tittering and swaying her arse just a little bit. Dany threw him a playful smile and a little wink over her shoulders.

_You gods damned minx…_

Jon could feel the veins through his manhood throb painfully as he drank in his vixen wife’s eyes, noting how they had turned from violet to an even deeper shade, one similar to the orchids growing in their gardens. The sizes of them were so blown they looked like purple moons.

“Well, Your Magnificence? Are you going to show me how wolves mate, or not?”

Jon’s hand found purchase on Dany’s round arse, his fingers gliding over their luscious expanse and appreciating their volume. He pressed the bulbous head of his girth at Dany’s entrance, enjoying her sweet little gasps of pleasure when he gave little presses against her folds. The tip of his cock was leaking already, placing sticky kisses on her pink cunt.

“Beg me.”

“W-what…?” She stammered.

He hardened on hearing the thick arousal in her voice, his mouth turning into a smirk.

“I said…” A grunt escaped him as Jon slightly pushed into her. “…beg for my cock.”

And her stammering turned into whimpers as Jon slowly, _agonizingly_  slowly, went a bit inside and then retracted. A chuckle left his mouth as he heard Dany curse under her breath.

“What was that, my sweet?” Another set of mumble. Jon had to lean in, pressing his chest against her back, hands never leaving her rump. “If you want me to hear you, you’ll have to be…louder!” This time, Jon pushed a little deeper, invasively entering her as he parted her quivering folds with his cock. That seemed to have done the trick as his wife let a long moan slip passed her lips. Jon’s hiss came sharp as the pleasure threatened to numb him.

“I said, you brazen little bunghole…” Dany snapped. By Balerion, her words dripped with vulgarity. Dany craned her neck and glared at him, red lips so perfect for cock-sucking now tucked into a feral snarl. Her eyes were set ablaze too, hooded and dark with lust. “…please, fuck me with your…” And now she was pushing back against him. “…thick…” Another push. “…hard…” Jon groaned so deep, his throat hurt. It was a struggle not to spill right then and there. And with a final push back, Dany sank down his pulsating cock, fully devouring him. “…Valyrian cock!”

By the gods, Jon thought. The view of Dany’s smooth arse firmly shoved against his pelvis, shaking a little in ecstasy, her arched back gleaming with sweat and her head thrown back in bliss broke his restraint.

And turned him into a beast.

Jon picked up a dizzying rhythm,  _fuck being gentle_ , and thrust into his aunt’s cunt wildly. As his reward, Jon heard how Dany moaned out his name, a lilt in her voice full of sexual hunger, repeating his name over and over again, like his name was a spell to invoke some eldritch sex ritual. Their hips bucked against each other loudly, echoing across the room.  _Slap!_ Jon thrust further and felt himself hitting something at the end of Dany’s cunt. _Slap!_ A smirk crept its way to his face, knowing what he was hitting with the tip of his cock.  _Slap!_

“ _Oh, Jon! Harder! Faster! Ah! Don’t slow down! Don’t you–_ Oh _! dare slow down!”_ She mewled in High Valyrian.

 _“I don’t intend to.”_ Jon growled back, and brought down a hand to one of her ivory backsides, slapping the cheek lightly, and Dany’s throaty moan at the touch made him grin. He gave another one. And another one.

None of his slaps were hard enough to hurt, but still forceful that the supple flesh rippled for a fraction; Jon would never hurt either two of his wives during their coupling, yet when a bit of bite was involved, Rhae and Dany would always sweetly constrict around his member a little tighter. They found no worth in gentle caresses.

They were not blushing maidens, but women, they would say.

So he had to fuck them as such.

He felt his release building up, a slow but sure descent into the abyss. Jon knew Dany was not yet as far he was, and thus, he snaked a hand down her stomach and rubbed the bundle of nerves above her cunt.

Dany’s surprised cry was all he had to hear to confirm that he was making good progress in tilting her world on its axis as well, and Jon started pounding into his wife harsher. It felt as if a lump of hot coal was at the pit of his stomach, burning hotter and hotter each time Jon slammed his manhood into his wife.

“Peak for me, my love. I want to spill inside you as you hit your zenith; the maesters say we’re at our most fertile if we come undone together.” Jon pleaded, feeling his already building up. Dany nodded repeatedly, throwing an arm behind her so she could wrap it around his neck, balling them into a fist in his hair before bringing him forward and claiming his lips in a kiss that threatened to melt his entire existence.

And then, Jon hit the top of his crescendo full force, spilling ropes of his seed inside Dany in four long spasms, groaning against her lips at the heavenly feeling. His hand still had yet to leave her little nub, and he flickered it a couple of times even during his peak, and then felt Dany’s walls constrict around his member seconds later. That caused him to have a fifth jerk, one final spurt of his seed shed inside her lovely womanhood.

They heaved in tandem, Jon’s body pressed against Dany’s shining back, allowing his cock to go limp inside her before pulling out. A while they remained there, content in each other’s heat, Jon resting his head against the back of his aunt’s shoulder. He initiated a series of pecks then, pressing loving kisses against her skin where she was the most ticklish, causing Dany to wiggle and titter.

“You and Rhae have claimed four hours of my morning with your desires. Four hours I could’ve spend spoiling my hatchlings.” Jon breathed out, coming to rise from the divan he had completely soiled with his and Dany’s fluids, hovering above her prone form. They gave their servants no imagination as to what could have possibly dirtied the linens so much. Jon cared little; he was the Holy Valyrian Emperor, he could do as he liked from time to time, though after what he had done moments earlier, he felt anything but holy.

His wife’s lovely body flipped underneath him and she sweetly smiled up to him. “Egg and Gar are most likely still abed, and you’ll be a good father and let them be. Our children need all the sleep they can get to grow strong one day. Rhae and I have kept you especially confined here because you tend to wake them earlier than they should with your enthusiasm.”

Jon allowed a chuckle to answer for him and he leaned down to kiss Dany on her lips. She eagerly opened her mouth and allowed his tongue entrance so it could glide and tangle with hers in a dance thick with desire and affection.

While Rhaenys tasted strong and spicy, Daenerys had an addictive sweet taste to her, a taste sweeter than honey and softer than sugar. Jon was not one to make favourites, but if he was being honest with himself, he preferred Dany’s sweetness over Rhae’s spiciness.

He was a sweet tooth, after all.

“Well then, I shall prepare myself for the day; though there are no obligations to be fulfilled, Maester Gyldayn urged me yesterday to look over the letters of the Elder Council once more.” Jon stood up after his lips left Dany’s, and wrenched a cloth off the rack so he could start wiping himself off. Next to the rack was a table with several decanters of wine, but Jon went for the jug of water and drank from its content, not even bothering with a cup.

Fucking always left a man thirsty, and smart men always chose water over wine.

_Only fools need alcohol in order to get their blood running._

Aegon always said that.

“We’re not done yet, Jon…” A voice rasped, a deep sultry tone laced through the words, and Jon’s eyes widened as he felt a pair of arms make their way around his waist. Rhae had woken up it seemed.

With strength he did not know his sister possessed, Rhaenys spun him around and claimed his lips with such force that he knew they were going to tingle with bruises later, forcing his arse against the table. Her hands had cupped his balls and gently played with them, forcing blood down his cock again. As fast as she was, just as fast was Rhae in tearing her lips away so she could kneel at eye level with his crotch.

So she could take him in her mouth.

_They will definitely be the death of me._

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jon watched with bated breath as Dany sashayed towards them, a full grin almost tearing her cheeks asunder.

_Most definitely, they will be the death of me._

Jon prayed to whatever god was listening to make his death slow and dragged out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I'm back! With so much free time on my plate, I decided to crank out another chapter. Enjoy and tell me your thoughts!

**DRAGONSTONE**

**DAENERYS**

Daenerys never thought much about going down on a man in all her earlier years of sexual exploration. Admittedly, the idea had at first intrigued her, knowing not its meaning and how it would exactly bring pleasure, but after Daenerys had paid visits to the notorious pillow houses of Lys to observe this, the notion had soured her mood so badly, Daenerys bought the entire pillow house and relieved all girls from their shackles, taking them into her service instead.

It was a repulsively demeaning act from what she had seen; women kneeling in front of their patrons and swallowing the girths of anyone perverted and rich enough to purchase this show of subservience. It was a humiliating gesture only to buoy the ego and dominance of a man as far as Daenerys was concerned.

How not? The thoughtless bastards she had witnessed taking part in this degrading practice would hold a woman’s head in their unforgiving grasp and viciously buck their hips into their throat until their manhood jerked, spilled and soiled their mouth with copious amounts of their seed. Most girls, those inexperienced being the greatest of victims, would gag or choke on the offensive intrusion into their mouths, either thanks to the length of the object or the viscous fluid flooding down their throats. Drinking the seed of a man was not an easy feature, and Daenerys could understand if they did not wish to stomach it.

The whores called it 'going down', or sucking cock for the crass people around, a very selfless act, a one-sided pleasure while for the other a source of discomfiture; the pillow warmers often charged their patrons a little extra for their efforts.

No, the act of performing oral sex was not a fantasy Daenerys oft entertained nor felt especially endeared to.

Until she married Jon.

The crackles of a hearth filled the lord’s chamber with soft orange glows, burning embers leaving its gaping maw to spread about the dimly lit room and illuminating the place around ethereally. The noises Jon and Daenerys made during this particular session of coupling drowned out all other infinitesimal sounds, all else reduced to naught but mere existences not worthy of their time, too focused on each other.

Her lips were wrapped around her husband’s leaking girth, bobbing up and down, taking him deeper into her throat with each languid move of her head, moaning now and then as she kept going. Her tongue caressed his thick shaft, licked the seed weeping from the slit atop his glans, then scattered quick kisses alongside the veins and stretched flesh of his smooth skin, coating Jon’s manhood fully with her saliva and his own slick, and marking him as hers as it were.

He was silent all the while, never letting out a groan or whimper, though Daenerys knew how much this act brought her lover such immeasurable amounts of pleasure. Jon may be a silent man, but he made up for his silence with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and his cock. Jon was a man of deed, not words.

The first time Daenerys went down to take her lover’s cock in her mouth, she was prepared to do this only so she could please the beautiful man that had bled so much to keep her, Rhaenys and their sons safe and loved.

Jon had given it a twist when Daenerys first introduced it in their marital bed, for he was utterly appalled by the notion that women were degraded like that, apparently a notion he shared with her. Jon offered a twist that changed her entire view on oral sex.

If a woman had her lips around a man’s cock, then a man had to have at least the grace to return the favour, concurrently or separately, it mattered little to him.

Their situation was concurrent.

Daenerys was lying flat on her belly on top of her muscled husband, feeling the coarse hair spread on Jon’s chiseled stomach tickle her breasts and nipples lightly, incentives of lust crawling all over her spine like stabs of lightning frying her nerves. One of her hands caressed his strong thigh while the other was wrapped around the base of his manhood, stroking primly what skin her mouth could not take in. Jon’s cock was impressive, so taking him in fully was a mighty challenge, and he never forced her or Rhae to swallow its entire length if they did not want to.

Jon had the spirit, body and eyes befit his station, his appearance regal enough to bring down the gods from their very perch, yet within the walls of that beating heart of his was a font of kindness only rivaled by the piety of saints and the softness of a kitling. A font only meant for her, Rhae and their children.

Her damp thighs were clamped against his head, tickled by the trapped locks of his luscious brown curls that had fallen from his braid, with her cunt wiggling firmly against his sinful mouth. Jon’s tongue expertly slithered inside and out, caressing her intimate walls and lapping up her slick wetness. The movement of his tongue made soft sloppy noises as he supped at her cunt, and Daenerys more than once arched her back just so he could delve a little deeper each time. Jon was on a personal quest to elicit the filthiest moans out of her lips judging by the amount of devotion he gave her weeping slit.

This was the twist Jon had counteroffered; her mouth on him while his mouth was on her.

The roughness of his cropped beard burnt against the flesh of her haunches, for certain leaving angry red splotches all over them. Daenerys loved the feeling with all her heart, reasoning that they did not look any different than flushes of pleasure. The way his rugged chin and cheeks would rub enjoyably against her bum made her buzz like a bee stumbling across a field of flowers. 

Jon had oft told her that the juices gushing out of her cunt had the sugary taste of peaches, hot and so sweet on the tongue, his teeth threatened to rot. Daenerys giggled the first time she heard him whisper such base words, blushing like a maiden presented with her first bedding. Peaches were her favourite fruits, and the thought that her womanly fluids had the same flavour as peaches was a wickedly delicious thought. The words ‘you are what you eat’ chimed through her head.

When she was the first time offered the tangy taste of her own sex dripping from Jon’s fingers, the truth was established. Her cunt was indeed sweet to sup on, much like Rhae’s, but her niece was otherworldly different in taste, however.

Daenerys had feasted on her beautiful niece’s cunt numerous times, second only to Jon in amount, and the both of them came to agree that Rhae’s taste was the most quenching drink in the world, as ironic as that was. She was rich with a peculiar flavour that had enslaved them to its taste. Gods, the first days Daenerys had spent between Rhaenys’ thighs eating her out while Jon roughly fucked her from behind were memories forever burnt on the films of her eyes, memories she treasured like marriage jewels.

A deep moan ripped through her throat as an especially toe-curling swipe of Jon’s tongue made Daenerys shudder in bliss, buoying her to increase her efforts as well.

The nature of what they were doing was utterly filthy, but it felt  _so_  good.

Another powerful moan escaped her, her mouth thrumming around Jon’s cock when a long rub of his tongue made her see white as it left her heat, Jon wiping his tongue against her slit and around the sensitive area around her pink folds before delving back in, fucking her in the most unorthodox of ways. Jon gave all sorts of kisses, all of them loving and giving, but this was her favourite sort of kiss. The ‘Lord’s Kiss’ the smallfolk around called it.

Daenerys utterly loved it.

Rhaenys loved it even more.

It spoke volumes of Jon’s selflessness and consideration.

A hand glided down her back, rough and strong with calluses, a warrior’s hand she mused, sending sparks of pleasure across her spine, before coming back to cup one of her bottoms. Jon never kept his hands to himself, always roaming, always caressing, squeezing and stroking, fire springing up everywhere his touch lingered. Gods, bless them for blessing her and Rhae with an excellent lover for a husband.

Eventually, his hand landed on her breast, palming its weight and giving it light squeezes as he kept devouring her. The fingers of his other hand began to prod into her folds while he kept licking, bringing her pleasure to new heights. Daenerys, in turn, hollowed her cheeks and gave a hard suck in gratitude, humming at the same time.

“Curse you, Dany…!” Jon shouted as his mouth left her cunt, teeth lightly grazing her core and pinching her nipple in surprise, causing her to give a short whine. She smirked inwardly.

_Two can play this game, my love._

Much as she loved this, she was feeling her climax creeping up on her, a powerful one she was sure, strong as a tidal wave about to hit the shore.

Jon came with a pained groan, his seed coating the cavern of her mouth, and his salty taste was enough to throw her over the edge as well, peaking all over her husband’s beard. She drank down her husband’s seed without a word of complain, feeling the thick mucus glide down her throat. For Daenerys, it was like drinking honey, only, it tasted not sweet, but salty, not an unpleasant taste. She could only wonder how Jon thought of her taste.

The chamber was thick with the heat and moisture of their bodies, the fire nothing in comparison to the heat of Daenerys’ and Jon’s breathes.

“Have you had your fill, my love?” She breathed out shallowly. “I now understand clearly why Rhae jumped on the chance of going on the diplomatic voyage to Volantis and speak with the Elder Council on your behalf. You’ve grown insatiable these days…” Smiling archly over her shoulder, Daenerys gave a little kiss on Jon’s cock, which was still half up at attention. He growled a little and gave her a firm pinch on her backside.

“What you are insinuating, wife, is that I’ve scared her off with my appetites?”

She tutted. “No, but you mayhaps exhausted her. I would be if I had a ravenous brother fucking me on a nightly manner like you do Rhae.” A bark of laughter momentarily rumbled through the bedchamber.

Sliding off of him, Daenerys swayed towards the side of their bed, picking up a bunch of green grapes from a YiTish fruit bowl sitting on the end table. This unrelenting bout had left her with a groaning stomach and she was in need of some sustenance.

Daenerys popped one into her mouth, chewed it between her molars and moaned as the sweet taste exploded all over her taste buds.

She felt the bed dip, and a pair of muscled arms slick with sweat came to wrap around her waist, chin settling on her shoulder and hands dancing down so they could start caressing her hips. Her fingers plucked another succulently green grape and held it before her husband’s mouth, who swiped it out of her hold with his nimble tongue.

“Are you ready for round seven?” He rasped, his hot breath fanning over the shell of her ear.  “I haven’t yet spent inside your tight little arse, and it’s been moons since I have. Gods know how much I’d like to ram myself up inside it.” Jon’s hand dwelled to where her hips met her legs, stroking the flesh with enthusiasm.

“You’re a beast, Jonothor Targaryen.” Daenerys giggled as she twisted in his embrace, slowly being pulled back towards the middle of the sweat-soaked bed, coming to rest her palms on his barrelled chest and straddling her beautiful lover. She ground her trimmed mound over his bulge languorously, the bud above her cunt pulsing each time she finished humping the length of his cock. Their eyes locked, a clash between violet and indigo fire, equal in passion and desire.

Jon answered her with a roguish grin, his hands slithering from her thighs to her hips, then her stomach and finally finding home by latching on to her breasts, kneading the supple flesh and flicking the hardening nubs of her nipples. Ever since she had given birth to Rhaegar, her breasts had swelled with milk, and once her boy had weaned, her tits remained supple. Nothing like Rhae’s fertile teats, but just so that now, they hang like little teardrops from her chest. Jon was smitten with them.

“If I am a beast, then that means you indulge in bestiality, sweet Dany.”

Scandalized, she slapped his chest lightly. “Jon!”

“What?” He questioned, and she felt how he managed to slide inside her slickness without effort, groaning how she stretched so pliantly to accommodate him. “The way we couple, we might as well be animals, and truth be told…” He came to sit up then, one arm locked around her waist and pulling her chest to chest with him, palm pressed against the other side right beneath her breast. The other hand was busy kneading her arse, and Jon leaned in to blow scalding hot air into her ear. “…fucking like animals is the best way of making a babe, wouldn’t you agree?” A plow upwards melted whatever words were about to spill over her lips as Daenerys gasped and clutched Jon’s shoulders tightly, fingers digging into the flesh, surely leaving behind little moon crescents.

Daenerys, in a rare moment of lustful anger, growled and bared her teeth, letting her dragonblood flare. Jon’s eyes darkened further. He was about to get what he wanted.

If Jon desired a hard fuck.

Daenerys was more than willing to give him one.

She would make him  _rue_  the moment he awakened the dragon within her.

* * *

Her fingers were still puckered as Daenerys worked in braiding Jon’s dark tresses of brown hair, twisting the soft curly locks until they were firmly aligned with the base of his spine. Jon had taken to emulating Daeron the Young Dragon with his hairstyle, who also had his elegant silver mane plaited and long.

For a time, Daenerys poked fun at Jon for it, teasing him that he instead liked to look like a Dothraki horselord, knowing how much he utterly loathed the barbarians of the Great Grass Sea. Jon had more than once disciplined Daenerys for her cheek; one night, he had left her a writhing mess as a pool of his thick seed kept pouring out of her gaping cunt in retaliation for a particularly persistent string of teasing.

The scent of rosemary alongside patchouli clung to her skin, courtesy of the scalding bath she shared with Jon. Her husband was not much for flowery smells, but after some playful banter, Jon agreed to have her at least rub a special oil over the scalp of his head; what he did not know was that it made him smell of freshly plucked apples, his least favourite scent. Daenerys loved rattling his cage so much. It would oft elicit the best fuck sessions out of him.  

After they ended their tryst in bed, the Valyrian couple decided to wash off the grime of their lengthy bout of sex by going down to the large bathing chambers nearby the Dragonmont. The heat of those waters was searing enough to likely peel off the skin of any person of ordinary blood. Her husband and she were not people of ordinary blood. They washed and wiped, not a single place on their bodies left untouched.

Jon, the devious man that he was, took this opportunity to make good on his desire to have her arse, and as they tried to clean themselves up for the day, half of their bathing time was spent with Daenerys with her hands against the slick and tepid stone wall while Jon oiled up her puckered hole and pummelled into her arse with the force of a battering ram, pressing her flush against the wall as he had his way with her, before they, at last, dragged themselves out of their hot pool with identical grins on their faces.

When back in their private chambers, Daenerys had taken upon herself to dress her husband, much to his chagrin, as he was aware of her taste for fancy clothes, a hobby she shared with Rhaenys.

Jon was a utilitarian at heart, most of the time dressed in simple but pragmatic garbs; a dark jerkin combined with lambswool breeches was his usual attire, but Daenerys once in a while wanted to indulge herself in dressing and crowning her beloved in the most expensive of samite, damasks, and jewels. Jon grumbled about it good-naturedly; he oft likened it to adult doll-dressing with a mock scowl.

It was ceremonial and indulgent, something Jon’s personal steward was titled to do, but the young servant boy obediently dismissed himself as soon as he saw the emperor’s silver consort attend her husband. It was cathartic for Daenerys, fingers twisting in hair and letting silk and lace slip through her hands, an occupation that gave her a phantom comfort; in the past, she was readily of help to Lyanna or Rhaegar, dressing the both of them in the most fashionable attires before the crack of day came and imperial duties called for their heed. Lyanna always smiled so beatifically when Daenerys was done laying the final touches.

At the thought of her brother and good-sister, a sharp pang hit her chest.

 _Lay to rest these thoughts, they will do you no good. You’ve brought Rhaegar back, and soon, you’ll bear Jon’s second child so he may one day call his daughter Princess Lyanna Targaryen, with silver hair and violet eyes._ That would make a beautiful future, Daenerys smiled.  _If the gods are good, mayhaps we could witness a second union of them._

_That is if you can further birth children at all._

She did not allow that thought to hold a second in her mind.

Daenerys wrapped a red gold sash around Jon’s waist, pulling it tight over the cloth-of-black, the dagged sleeves of his dark robes of YiTish silk embroidered with silver Myrish laces representing fire. Earlier she had finished lacing up his boots made of black elephant leather, tucking their ends into a pair of lambswool breeches dabbled in black dye. Black had always been his colour.

She slipped the Valyrian steel signet ring with the three-headed dragon made of rubies over his annulary, waving off Jon’s protest, who said he did not like the heavy weight of the ring.

“It’s part of your regalia; the Targaryen emperor is ought to wear it.” She said as she placed a crown of dragonglass encrusted with rubies upon Jon’s head.

Jon stood up from the chair, straightening his robes with a hand. “Do you have something to share with me, Dany? I normally don’t look so regal unless for audiences, and as far as I know, we have no incessant dignitaries knocking on our doors.”

“I just had a queer desire to preen you up,” She shrugged, then smiled. “and it does not hurt to see you so magnificent every once in a while, if only to please my own eyes.”

She herself opted with a long-skirted gown of black satin, snuggly fit to show off the contours of her womanly figure, with a gaping slit in the middle, revealing the valley of her breasts. The dress was fastened to a choker around her neck. A large leather belt was around her waist with the sigil of House Targaryen emblazoned upon it. Her bright tresses of silver-gold were held back by a thin crown of silver, with three dragon heads meeting at the front.

Dressed and perfumed, the imperial pair made for the doors, exiting the privacy of their chambers, and were immediately pounced on by the peals of children’s laughter.  

“Father!”

A pair of young boys toddled over, stampeding towards them on stubby legs. They had slipped their hand out of the maidservant’s grip who was charged with keeping an eye on them through the noon, and the little boys were now making a frantic dash to their parents. Daenerys clucked like a mother hen as she watched her sweet boys run towards them so recklessly, a flower of warmth blooming inside her at the sight of their adorable faces split in broad grins.

Jon knelt down and scooped both their sons Aegon and Rhaegar, holding them up with his powerful arms and for once letting his handsome face crinkle into a smile as he looked upon the two boys.

Daenerys was suddenly overwhelmed by a flood of joy and sorrow as the little boys pressed their grinning faces against their father’s broad chest, one silver-haired and rambunctious, much like his namesake, and the other dark-haired and quiet, taking after his sire in looks. While Aegon was busy prattling his father’s ears off, Rhaegar was content with playing with the satin laces of Jon’s collar.

Aegon was truly her deceased nephew come again, the young boy as bright and cheery as the brave prince who was his namesake; the prince who had saved their lives all those years ago by buying her and Rhae enough time to flee the imperial capital. His indigo eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief. Aegon had caused their household more than one headache, yet despite it all, he was fiercely loved.

Sometimes, Daenerys would wipe away a tear from Rhae’s cheek every time she looked upon her son wrestle with his father, imagining the brother she loved so purely. Daenerys was aware that her niece had found renewed love in her other brother, but the scar of Aegon’s death would forever pain Rhaenys in her wake, like missing a limb. The scar healed but never faded.

Rhaegar had none of his brother’s, not half-brother’s,  _brother’s_ , radiance, though he did not fall short on receiving affection. Her son was purple-eyed, brown of hair and pale as snow, like the man who had sired him. Whereas Aegon was loud and demanding attention, Rhaegar was quiet and observant, just like his father and grandfather. Rhaegar was his namesake in all but colour; if her brother was ever born sans the Valyrian looks, but instead with the brown of the Starks, he would surely look like this.

“Can we go see the drakes, Father? I wanna pat Lya and Gal! Can we, father? Please? Please, please, please?” Aegon pleaded on and on, shimmying in Jon’s arms. With Rhaenys and Aegonax away, little Egg had grown restless and sought out more oft his father and half-mother’s company.

Gar kept his lips pursed, though the twinkle in his gems was not unseen. Her precious little hatchling loved the dragons just as fiercely as his brother, but like her Jon, rather than shouting it from the top of his lungs, he would whisper gently into her ear that he wished to see them, with a finger twirling around one of her silver locks as he ducked his chin. For a boy almost hitting his fourth nameday, Rhaegar was surprisingly manipulative for his age. Daenerys could not remember a time when she denied her little son anything.

Jon handed Aegon to her. “Very well, hold on to your mother, we’ll go and see our kin in the skies.” The boy happily wrapped his little arms around her neck and Daenerys showered the boy with pecks, making up for his true mother’s absence.

From the very start of their birth, Jon, Rhae and she had made sure that neither Egg nor Gar would come to see each other as anything less but full-blooded brothers.

_There is no such thing as ‘half’ in our lexis. Our sons are born of Targaryen blood. I’ve fed both Gar and Egg from my teats, one on the left and the other on the right, as did Rhae. Our sons know one father, and two mothers. And so will our future children._

On the way out of Dragonstone’s premises, a series of roars then started to fill the air. Aegon grew impatient with excitement, whimpering and wiggling in her hold and Daenerys had to bite him on the shoulder lightly to keep him from jumping out of her arms. The silver-gold boy reciprocated with a playful chomp of his own, his little canines causing her no harm, but Daenerys laughed nonetheless at his audacity.

And then they came outside, stepping on to a field of grass where small herds of sheep were grassing, a shepherd guiding a stray back to the flock. He quickly herded his stock away towards the castle as the shrieks grew stronger, surely not keen on having one of his sheep snatched away.

The wind kept blowing through their hair as the sound of wings thundered around them like a storm. Above them, two gigantic shadows threatened to bloat out the sun, singing in their tongue loudly for all to hear.

_“Lyaxes, Rhaegal, come down and greet your wards!”_

Both great serpents let out another roar before descending.

A dark shadow clapped its wings and came to land on the ground, sending small trembles through the ground. It rumbled as it lowered its massive skull down, as if a lightning bolt whipped inside its throat.

Lyaxes was the largest of their three dragons, a great black and red mass of spikes, scales and plates, their house colours made flesh. Its eyes were smouldering red pits, alive and alight with fire, gazing down at the four of them for a long moment before purring fondly as Rhaegar and Aegon roared back at it.

Lyaxes was Jon’s mount, named after his fierce mother Lyanna, a creature that honoured its namesake with its own ferocity. It was chiefly this dragon that brought an end to the War of the False Dragons. Rhaegal and Aegonax played their parts well, but Lyaxes, with its aggression and unrivaled power, truly tipped the scales to their benefit. It had torn through Daemon Brightfyre and his own dragon Drokthor during the Battle around the Titan, where Lyaxes tussled with Drokthor in an epic clash and impaled its opponent through the Titan’s Sword before ripping off its head, ending the civil war there and then.

Jon’s dragon had an aggressive nature, the Black Dread come again some said, but as the years flew by, that anger seemed to have tempered, reserved only for those who dared to threaten the emperor and his family.

Rhaegal’s smaller form soon joined its sibling, coming to the side and bending its shining neck so it could blow some hot air into Rhaegar’s face through its nostrils, her son giggling delightfully.

For an hour or so, Daenerys and her family spent their time in the grass field, the company of the two dragons giving them warmth. She reveled as she watched how Aegon monkeyed around with his father’s great mount, carefully climbing between its spinal spikes, while Rhaegar looked on at his brother with awe, the boy settled in Jon’s lap. The laughter was sedative, lulling her to a peaceful slumber almost, but Daenerys forced her eyes open just as the fog of sleep came over her. Jon had not allowed her much sleep last night, and for a moment, she had been nettled by her husband’s seemingly endless endurance. He did give her a good fuck, so mayhaps that was reasonable compensation for her current lack of sleep.

A young page with sand coloured hair and murky eyes, Thom his name was, the third son of Dragonstone’s castellan, approached them warily from the gate leading out towards the grass fields of the island.

“Your Magnificence? Beggin’ yer pardon, milord and lady, but I’ve been sent on me way by Maester Gyldayn.” He scrambled as close as he dared, a ledger in hand as Thom fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. He was eying the dragons fearfully.

“No need to be afraid, Thom. The dragons will only attack when they feel a threat to them or us. Are you a threat, boy?” Jon said. It was meant as a jape, Daenerys knew, but Jon was hardly renowned for being one to crack jokes, and with his usual imperious voice edged with steel, it came off more like an order.

“N-no, milord, I just…”

“Breathe, Thom. Calm yourself and breathe.” Daenerys soothed, frowning disapprovingly at her husband who merely quirked an eyebrow in question. She turned back to the poor lad with a smile and the boy blushed. “Lyaxes and Rhaegal are harmless, ignore them and tell us what the kind old maester had to say.”

Thom did as he was told, looking calmer than earlier. “Maester Gyldayn told me to inform milord of a man of the waters wishing to have an audience with the Holy Valyrian Emperor.”

A man of the waters? A sailor, mayhaps? Or a sellsail? Whoever he was, he had the audacity to seek an audience with Jon unannounced. A slight in and of itself.

None came before the dragon without prior notice.

“What did this man say his name was?” Daenerys inquired, and the boy shook his head.

“He did not say, milady. He’s a tall man with a cocksure face, that one, all smirk and pride. Looked at me like I was the dirt underneath his nails.”

“And when did this man arrive?” Jon prodded further, coming to stroke Aegon’s riot of silver curls.  

“Just now; his barge is doddering somewhere in the waters over yonder.” A finger was pointed westwards, towards Blackwater Bay. 

“To think someone is brazen enough to port at my isle without leave.” The children were too busy with the dragons to notice the discussion. Jon regarded Daenerys with fixed eyes. “See to the children and bring them to their chambers. I’ll see what this ruckus is about.”

Daenerys nodded, pressing a kiss to his lips before Jon sauntered off towards their castle, led by Thom. She herded her children together, staying nearby the two great dragons. She had half a mind to climb Rhaegal and see for herself this nimble ship who under the cover of darkness had managed to slip their notice.

Whoever the miscreant was, he was admirably brave, or bravely foolish.

Well, it has been seen oft enough that foolishness and bravery were both sides of a coin.

Mayhaps the man was foolhardy.

If anything else, stepping inside a dragon’s lair so recklessly was a testament to it.

* * *

Daenerys stood at Jon’s side waiting for their unsolicited guest. He was offered a guest chamber until Jon and Daenerys saw it fit to receive him, to which he seemed to have taken exception to as Maester Gyldayn told them of his rather pinched face when he was told to wait for them.

Jon was perched upon the black throne of Dragonstone’s Great Hall, sitting it regally with one leg draped over the other and his elbows both resting upon the armrests, fingers drumming in a steady rhythm. Daenerys always found it so thrilling to see Jon sit like that, graceful and fully at ease, as if he was born for sitting a throne. Her brother Rhaegar sat the Obsidian Throne with steel and power, and Aegon sat it with beauty and elegance. Jon brought the two together, grace and prestige pouring out of him in abundance.

Oh how sometimes she would grow a bit damp between the thighs at the view.

Daenerys was brought out of her musings as the double doors were pushed open, a lean man swaggering into the hall with a full smirk tugging at his lips. The browns of his eyes turned to her, barely veiled desire pooling in them as he drank her in, and Daenerys did nothing but simper back at his leer.

There was no harm in letting him see what he could not have, though the man’s smarmy gaze filled with shameless lust did make her want to retch inwardly. He was at least pleasant on the eye, though for sure, Daenerys would not shed a tear for him if at the end of the day, Jon decided to have him cut down for such a blatant display of arrogance.

“Your Magnificence! It is a true honour to stand before you!” He smiled broadly, flailing his hands around theatrically. He made no bow or drop to a knee. This man was certainly arrogant. “My name is Theon Greyjoy of Pyke, Prince of the Iron Fleet and Captain of the  _Sea Bitch_.” An ironman? And a kraken’s son at that, one of the peskiest of their lot. The Greyjoys were not even kings, so to refer to himself as a prince was stupendously presumptuous. He was quite loudmouthed as well, this man; this Theon Greyjoy certainly looked like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Jon would not appreciate him in the slightest.

Her husband, as expected, was far from impressed, only grunting his acknowledgment. The twitch of this Theon Greyjoy’s jaw was not unnoticed.

Daenerys cleared her throat. “To what do we owe the arrival of a kraken here on our shores, ironman?”

Theon whipped his head to her, a glare burning in his eyes, clearly taken a slight. She cared not.

But his lips remained in a smirk. “I’ve come here to offer a proposition.”

“Oh…?” Jon rumbled, sitting up straighter. “Tell me then, Prince Theon…” Daenerys had to smother her giggle at the derisive drawl of Theon’s title. “What may this proposition entail?” Jon said in feigned interest, though, the mock was hardly discernible; Daenerys knew he was mocking Theon, because he had seen his black wit once before.

Theon’s smirk returned full force and he started sauntering across the hall, the hundred braziers around paling in comparison to his inflamed ego. “I’ve come before you with a most gracious offer, one you cannot possibly refuse if you know what a good bargain is.” Balerion have mercy, he already started off on a bad note with all the pomp and self-importance of a peacock in his words. Jon raised a single eyebrow but remained quiet. He was even less amused than earlier. “The Riverlands have been ruled for too long by the Hoares. Their reign of terror must come to an end, alongside their vile line. Even amongst the ironborn, House Hoare is despised for its mass slavery practices and ruthless oppression of the people.”

The people, or his fellow ironborn? Daenerys wanted to ask. She had heard of the Hoares, and indeed, their cursed reputation preceded them, but that could be said about this sanctimonious seafarer’s ilk in general. For her, they were like the Dothraki, only, they used oars instead of stirrups. They rode the waters instead of the grasslands. Rapers and plunderers they were; people of violent delights and people who met violent ends.

“I ask of you the following; unseat King Qhorin Hoare of his throne and liberate the Riverlands in the name of freedom! I’ll offer you my support and rally what little people we have loyal to our cause, so we can see this black line of tyrants see their demise. As a reward, you may have your pick of any boon you wish to collect, be it gold, land…” Theon’s eyes smiled lecherously as they landed on Daenerys. “…or women. Whatever it is you desire, you’ll be the first to receive the spoils. What do you say? Are the dragon and kraken in bed for this?”

Jon stared long and hard at the kraken boy. Each second that passed was a chip falling off from the winning smile of Theon Greyjoy. And then Jon gave his answer.

“No.”

Theon faltered, genuinely surprised. “S-sorry…?”

At that, Jon chuckled darkly at Theon Greyjoy, and came to rise from his seat. “No, I don’t think so, Prince Theon Greyjoy.”

“Y-you don’t think–” Theon spluttered but was cut off sharply as Jon’s voice turned to steel.

“Is it  _you_  who’ll offer me support, or is it  _I_ simply bearing down on the ironborn and raining enough fire upon your rivals until they’d be nothing more but ash? Come now, Prince Greyjoy, are you taking me for a fool?”

“O-of course not, I wouldn’t dare to–”

“Indeed.” Jon growled. “You wouldn’t dare, and yet you presumed the moment you strolled into my castle uninvited, thought you could spin some mummer’s farce about the woes of a people I have  _no_ interest in whatsoever. And then, you have the audacity to think that I’d fall in line and agree to help you in this rather,” Jon snorted, amused. “shabby attempt at gaining my sympathies. I must say, if I was a lesser man, perhaps I would’ve given an ear to your ‘heartfelt’ plea to help save your people, but the fact of the matter remains…”

Jon walked up towards Theon Greyjoy, who had grown pale all of a sudden. When Jon stood close enough to touch Theon’s shoulder with his own, he leaned in.

“I utterly despise your kind. You lot could all burn for all I care.” Jon snapped his fingers and two guards seized the ironborn by the arms, Theon shouting in outrage at being manhandled so roughly.

“Unhand me this instant! Do you have any idea who I am!? A prince of House Greyjoy! My father owns the greatest fleet in the world! This is the heir to the Iron Fleet you’re putting your hands on!”

“Cease your wailings, Theon Greyjoy, it is unbecoming of a prince.”

“Bugger you!”

Daenerys winced as one of the guards smashed his fist against the ironborn’s face. Like a sack of potatoes, Theon Greyjoy went limp and the guards proceeded to haul him out of the hall, and the hinges of the door groaned as they closed yet again.

“That was…certainly an interesting development. Honestly, what did he think would happen? We’d welcome him with open arms, offer him meat, mead and a bedwarmer for his troubles?” Daenerys tittered, but Jon was anything but amused. He went back to sit his throne, a fist supporting his face as he scowled with pure scorn at the door where the Greyjoy prince was dragged out through.

“I have the distinct feeling the fool lost some bet and was coerced to do the most foolish thing he could think of, which happened to be bothering us. Even though I didn’t extend guest rights to the insolent squid ‘prince’, cutting off his tongue for his crass would have been poor manners. Ironmen…” Jon clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Those arrogant fools keep thundering about paying the iron price like they’re some fierce warrior folk, keeping to their Old Ways, plundering, raping and taking what they can, but present them with an army and they’ll run off with their tails between their legs. The only good ironman is a dead ironman. They and the horselords are nothing different.”

Daenerys lifted the hems of her black skirt, stepping up the dais and perched herself upon one armchair. Jon wrapped an arm around her waist instinctively, pulling her close to his side.

“Now, now, my love, there’s no need to furrow your eyebrows so painfully over an impetuous kraken.” Her long fingers swiped over Jon’s forehead, smoothening away the wrinkles that came with his great burdens.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you; like he was slowly undressing you right where I stood.” That caused Daenerys to laugh. The man was certainly not subtle in his desires; the bulge in his breeches was hard to miss. “I did lie to him.” Jon said, and now it was her turn to frown. Jon looked at her more intently. “When I said I have no interest in his people, I lied. Not only the ironborn, but the whole of Westeros has slowly piqued my interest.”

“How so, Jon?”

“I’ll wait for Rhaenys to come back from Volantis. This will concern our future, and I need her here.”

Their future. Daenerys’ frown deepened, but she kept her concerns to herself.

For now, at least.

Whatever Jon planned, he would tell her in his own time. He always did. 

Jon was right, they had to wait for Rhae.

The three-headed dragon always functioned better together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, I'm not gonna add Arya to the harem. Also, should I just get rid of the 'Underage' warning? I believe it doesn't actually apply on second thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm a filthy liar, this will have more plot than I originally thought...But hey! That's not bad, is it?

**VOLANTIS**

**RHAENYS**

“…and thus, noble lords of the Elder Council, I, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, consort to my husband, His Magnificence, Jonothor Targaryen, First of His Line, Holy Valyrian Emperor and Sovereign of the Nine Cities, solemnly bestow upon you the right of autonomous decision-making, by virtue of my husband’s grace. From henceforth, the Elder Council has the prerogative to pass down legislation with assent of His Magnificence. Let it be known that today, for the sake of our mutual respect and love, lord and council have come to an agreement representing all our interests. May the gods bless His Magnificence the Emperor, and may they bless us all as well.”

When Rhaenys finished her speech, she lifted a small spoon and shovelled up some sealing wax granules from a can. Her fingers held the spoon above the candle and waited for the granules to melt before she poured it on the end of Jon’s decree, right next to where her signature was. An elderly man gave her a stamp, and Rhaenys pressed its face firmly against the wax before removing it, earning her a round of boisterous applause.

Rhaenys pushed herself off the table and daintily stood up from her cushioned seat, the dignitaries hovering around her backing away and dipping their heads in deference. She paid them no heed. As they congregated over the charter which they had yet to name, Rhaenys allowed herself to sway freely towards her exit, finally well rid of these formalities. Rhaenys swept her smooth black mane of obsidian locks behind her shoulders, tucking her shawl of gold samite over her head.

She nodded at her guards, the skirt of her silk gown hitting the floor once more as her men quickly wrapped around her like ants around their queen, spears at the ready and guiding Rhaenys out of the Triarch’s Palace. When she crossed the doors, a servant came rushing to her, obediently throwing the travelling cloak around her and fastening it at the collar. She thanked the young girl, who gave a docile bow, but Rhaenys was already walking down the stairs.

Her diplomatic voyage had ended on a bitter note. A sennight long of negotiations, talks and debates culminated in Rhaenys concluding a very disadvantageous treatise with the Elder Council. Jon had received their letter some time ago, and its content, while polite, had an edge of urgency. The Elder Council had grown restless by the absence of their Emperor. She could understand, for laws had to be approved, sessions had to be chaired and the treaties between Slaver’s Bay and New Valyria were in need of renewal amongst other things.

But this, Rhaenys had not expected.

With the Elder Council now granted autonomous decision-making, Jon’s dominance over them was no more a pressure on their agendas and the Elder Council could now take matters into their own hands, at the cost of imperial authority. When it first dawned upon Rhaenys what was at play here, she started to work against her husband’s wish, still trying to retain some powers for him. By Balerion, he was on the verge of dismantling his crown it looked like!

During their arguments, Rhaenys had to begrudgingly admit, the Elder Councillors were a tenacious lot, matching her word for word during the exchange of speeches; she had lost more standpoints than won, to her utter annoyance. It was already ridiculous that she had to take defence against what she viewed was Jon’s solemn birthright, and now Rhaenys had to swallow down the truth that she had  _lost_  in that matter entirely. How utterly infuriating!

One would think that having dragons at your side would deter anyone from building up an argument, but apparently, that was not the case. To make matters more convoluted, Jon had explicitly said to her not to resort to dragonfire and that if their contention had genuine merit, she was to let go and acquiesce. Shocked, Rhaenys considered at length whether her husband had lost his wits about.

As the headstrong sister-wife she was, Rhaenys did not obey Jon’s word, albeit with the greatest of reluctance. She did not relish in defying her brother, yet there was no way she could allow this to set its course. And now, after so much effort, she had lost Jon’s absolute power. Bitterness spread across her tongue alongside indignity.

A small part of her had started to whisper, suspecting that Jon wanted her to lose this battle on purpose.

When Rhaenys returned to her husband, she would vehemently demand of him his reason of thought.

Rhaenys shook her head, taking her bottom lip between her teeth in bemusement. Dwelling on those musings did her no good, Rhaenys concluded. The decision was sealed and the decree was signed. It was her husband’s will, black on white, and none who could contest it, not even Jon himself now.

 _What are you thinking, dearest Jon? This is our birthright you conceded. After everything we have fought for and fought against, you would see to it that Father’s, Aegon’s,_ our _sacrifices are for nought?_

No, there was possibly no way her Jon was thinking this. Guilt flooded her stomach, making it drop low. Her dear brother was wise beyond his years and his sharp caution had always saved them from peril. Jon’s decision could not be the result of poor prudence on his part. Rhaenys never oscillated his judgment. Jon's judgment since he had married her was as absolute as the sceptre of time.

The day Rhaenys gave birth to their son, Jon holding him in his arms and pressing a tender kiss to his head with the name Aegon spilling from his lips, she knew. Jon, with his joyous tears threatening to spring from his eyes at the sight of his son, was at that moment the most faultless man Rhaenys had ever since; Jon allowed her to take a chance at love again, and to her relief and content, he had not disappointed her.

But with that love came trust, and while she trusted Jon with her heart, body and soul, Rhaenys was not sure if the same could be said of him.

She did not allow that to pain her as much as it almost threatened to do.

There had to be an explanation. Rhaenys was certain Jon had a legitimate reason for this decision he made. Of all people, it was he who understood the meaning of sacrifice, of duty, of what their family had been through to preserve their legacy. Her trust in him was unquestionable. When in his arms again, he would surely tell her.

And if not to her, surely he would trust Dany with the truth, as he always does. If Jon did not deign it necessary to tell her, she would bow her head and accept his will without question. It was only fair. Dany would always come before her in his heart, right behind their children. Jon was not beholden to trust her like a man trusted his wife, as much as she wished it to be so.

Aegonax’s shrieks brought her fully out of her tortuous dwellings, and with fondness, Rhaenys gazed at her mount from the distance. His golden form was perched atop the great dome of the Temple of the Lord of Light, its lengthy tail gracefully coiled around it. Its head was placed inside the red-orange flames, bathing in its heat and even inhaling some of it. As soon as it felt her eyes on its body, Aegonax’s great skull stirred and opened its giant maws, a row of shining black teeth showing, to give another short shriek before pushing himself off the temple, coming towards her as if beckoned by Rhaenys’ call.

Aegonax planted his claws upon the Black Wall, perched right above the entrance, and Rhaenys quickened her pace before caressing its snout with a pair of hands as Aegonax lowered its face towards her. Like a cat given a good rub over its belly, her dragon purred as her fingers scratched its scales.

 _“I know, sweetling, I miss them too. Don’t you lament now, we’ll be on our back way home soon.”_  As if in answer, Aegonax pushed her lightly, clearly impatient, but Rhaenys was not one for being pushed over. She fixed her dragon a stern glare, but it held for only a moment before Rhaenys’ face changed into a knowing smile.  _“As unruly as my own son. You’re supposed to be a fierce and regal creature, not some child covered in scales.”_  The laugh escaped her before she noticed it. Rhaenys placed her hands upon her mount’s neck and hoisted herself up, using his scales as leverage. She settled in the saddle, a spot neither loose when Aegonax would take flight, or cramped between the pointy spikes along its spine. Her fingers were working on fastening her belt, and when that ordeal was done, Rhaenys nodded to herself.

When Rhaenys had taken a proper seat, she brought her hand to glide over the side of her mount’s neck.  _“Take to the skies, Aegonax!”_ With a beat of its creamy wings, Aegonax took off and roared powerfully, a golden bat glissading through the night’s sky, its form a bright sword of scintillating scales against the darkness, like the tail of a star cleaving through the heavens.

She would be heading to Pentos for a short pause before making it for Dragonstone.

Her family was waiting for her.

And Rhaenys would not force them to be patient with her return for much longer.

* * *

 

**DRAGONSTONE**

 

Just mere hours ago, Rhaenys had left the harbour of Pentos while the city was amidst a flurry of activity, alive with an anxious rash spread through all its denizens. The sun was settled high, seated in at its zenith, hot columns of sunlight descending from above with no dust or cloud around to be seen, giving way for clear vision.

When she looked from the back of Aegonax, Rhaenys had spotted to her astonishment the aquamarine sails of the Velaryon Fleet alight by the afternoon rays, the argent seahorse proud in the wind and shimmering alive. The Bay of Pentos was like a bowl of lamb stew, filled with ships of various sizes.

Her head tilted in askance, indigo eyes upon the large harbour of the Free City, taking in the resplendent armour of red-clad soldiers tromping in the sun. Cohorts of troops marched up across the docks, a loud cacophony of clattering armour, stampeding feet and barked orders. Sailors around loaded in what seemed to be crates of supplies and signifiers carried the golden banner of the First Imperial Legion with the utmost pride.

Her lilac eyes clung to the hulking masses of a dozen or so elephants even, hooting as they gently got led by their trunk into the largest ships.

A handful of sailors had finished with the embarkation and were in the act of drawing in their anchors. Some ships already left port, crawling out of the bay with the patience of slugs, towards the mouth of the bay. Towards west. Towards Dragonstone.

Rhaenys felt herself grimace as she looked back at the memory, the wind chafing her cheeks and lips as she willed her mount to speed up their flight back home. For whatever reason was Jon mobilizing the army?

A small mass of land then grew on the horizon, and Rhaenys could feel her heart lurch with warm familiarity. Home was almost in sight, and the answers she was looking for within grasp.

Rhaenys witnessed how the Stone Drum scratched the sky with its dark length, the tip disappearing in the low hanging clouds. The sky had turned a motley colour, heavy with summer rain. Soon, a storm would encompass Dragonstone, and Rhaenys wanted to be indoors before that would come to pass.

Sensitive to its rider’s thoughts, Aegonax picked up her desire to arrive home sooner than later, and in answer, her golden dragon flapped its leathery wings harder, pushing forward faster through the gales of the approaching storm.

Landing on top of the Stone Drum, Rhaenys swung her legs to the side, dismounting Aegonax, greeting the unforgiving floor with the soles of her boots, the harsh stone making her feet tingle a bit in slight pain.

Her beautiful companion looked on at length, bearing down on her small form, eyes so bright they could be two chips of gold, and Rhaenys smiled fondly.  _“Go, love, I know you’re eager to have a good meal. The hunt is calling for you.”_  A hand came to stroke its snout briefly before she stepped away, watching as Aegonax jumped into the sky with a shriek. Soon enough, two others joined in, and the sky was once again filled with the song of dragons, the most beautiful ballad as far as she was concerned.

“Empress Rhaenys! We are most relieved to see you again, as fair and healthy as ever.” Maester Gyldayn said kindly, the old man treading forward, his chains chiming lightly with each step.

Rhaenys gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Good day, Maester Gyldayn. I hope we will not be standing here for long.” A few drops of rain already pitter-pattered on her skin. “How are my sons? Nothing that should warrant my concern?” In the past, Rhaenys was flawless with her courtesies, but the years had turned her into a harsher creature, no more concerned with decorum.

Old Maester Gyldayn bowed his head. “Yes, the little princes are as healthy as young hatchlings, full of strength and endurance. By your instructions, we’ve kept feeding them nutritious edibles. The weaning is going on well.” A knot Rhaenys did not know she had started to unfurl. Her shoulders sagged just barely, almost imperceptibly, but even that little movement eased the tendons around her neck. Aegon was partial to drinking his mother’s milk as oft as possible. Rhaegar, as always, was malleable and quickly adopted to solid food, but not her boy. Always so headstrong. He would have done his namesake proud.

“And what about my husband and sister-wife?” Rhaenys took off her gloves, handing them to a servant girl with curly silver hair; a former Lysene pillow warmer turned maidservant. Her retainer in Volantis was also a Lyseni, a youthful boy who collected the letters that Jon had sent for her, daily little missives that spoke of trivial things. They warmed her heart all the same. Sometimes, as she read through the contents of the letters, Rhaenys entertained herself with the notion that mayhaps, Jon indeed had slowly come to love her more than a duty he was all too eager to take upon his shoulder. Like a man who loved a woman. Silly tales, she told herself then.

“They have sent me personally to come and escort you to them.” He gestured for the door and the pair paddled forth, the guards holding the wooden frames open as they passed through it. “His Magnificence wishes to speak with you, and ordained to have me wait here the moment he caught a glimpse of the white dragon.”

Rhaenys nodded, walking side by side with the greybeard maester, pulling her travelling cloak off of her as soon as they stepped inside, placing the heavy cloth over the arms of a maidservant, who scurried off immediately.

Though Maester Gyldayn was older than her, Dany and Jon together, he was still a fit man, only suffering from a small case of hunchback. His bald head was riddled with liver spots and large puckered wrinkles surrounded his deeply sunken eyes, as befit his age; some scullions jested that his head looked like that of a shrivelled perry. A bushy beard of salt and pepper hair covered much of his face, so Rhaenys reckoned, Maester Gyldayn was not only a shrivelled pear, but also a hairy one. Rhaenys scolded herself; it was unkind to belittle the kind man with a slight limp, even if within the walls of her mind.

Rhaenys recognized the candles of these corridors Maester Gyldayn guided her through; the Great Hall was a few stairs to the right when climbing down the Stone Drum, and so, these had to lead towards the only room more important than the Great Hall, for they had taken a left by the bifurcation. It was also not a long trek, for the Chamber of the Painted Table was a room on the top floor of the Stone Drum.

The two guards standing at the entrance straightened upon the sight of Rhaenys, clutching their spears just a little tighter, no doubt spun taut as bows at the mere sight of her. A few too many times had she scolded the guards for lollygagging with a tongue so sharp she could have cut through them like carving a cake. It was good to see them a bit more disciplined now, even if only for their own sake; nary a person found worth in men sloppy with their tasks, and careless guards could mean the difference between life and death.

The door was opened for her wordlessly, and Rhaenys took in Dany’s seated form as she stepped inside, her aunt’s face stuck to the Painted Table, going over it with furrowed brows, attention fixed as she twirled a strand of golden hair around her finger. Jon, with his impressive back turned to them, stood nearby the balcony, leaning his weight against a pillar, looking out on the stretched waters of the Narrow Sea.

Dany perked up at the sound of the door creaking open, and the bows of her lips curled up in a radiant smile when they crossed eyes, frown gone in a blink, standing up and enveloping Rhaenys in a tight embrace when she came within her arm’s reach.

“Oh, how we’ve missed you. Gar and Egg haven’t stopped wailing when they heard of your absence. They’ve missed their mother dearly.” Dany sighed against her cheek, cuddling her as Rhaenys felt her more generous chest squeeze against Dany’s youthful teats. Rhaenys wrapped her arms around her narrow waist, closing her eyes as she squeezed back, their shared heat making her flush with warmth. Oh, how she had missed them all. 

When they distanced, Dany pressed a kiss on her lips, and Rhaenys could not help herself but savour the plush feel against her, whimpering a little, her own lips moving to reciprocate the kiss without even meaning to. Dany had always been a creature of passion and never shied away of showering her loved ones with affection, which in turn obligated their body to sing along.

Dany peered into her eyes pointedly. “After this, you and I alongside the children will have a good bath.” Her highborn nose scrunched a little, a playful wont when she felt like teasing. “You could certainly use one.”

Mirthfully, Rhaenys shook her head, and then she took stock of Jon approaching them. The lines of his mouth were set in a soft smile, and Rhaenys nearly threw her arms around his neck when she disentangled herself from her aunt. Instead, she kept composure and heartily arched into her husband when they entwined, her lithe body fitting seamlessly against his as one muscled arm came to coil around her waist to press a gentle hand against the small of her back while another cupped her cheek, with a tenderness in his fingers only lovers could have.

“Welcome home, Rhae.” He murmured into her ear, coming to tighten his hold around her with great subtlety. A low hum escaped her, the broad expanse of her husband’s chest making her heart thrum quicker as she laid her head against it.

While Dany’s flesh was made of pure white passion, Jon was duplex at heart; he had next to the blood of the dragon also the wolf’s blood in his veins. Ice and fire coursing through his veins.

At most times, he was living ice; cold, strong and stalwart as the words of his mother’s House, and just as unforgiving. Winter come again. But the rare cases when it happened, she would catch glimpses of Jon’s infernal wrath. Daemon Brightfyre and his faction suffered the meaning of fire and blood until not even a finger of their existence remained. Such was the life of a man equal parts wolf and dragon, with neither of the two winning the dance of dominance within his blood. 

Jon never raised his voice when in anger, nor did he ever need to. The timbre of his lilt could shake the very foundations of the world with just a mere whisper.

But with her and the rest of their dwindling family, he was soft as snow and warm as embers.

Rhaenys often wondered if the result of two bloodlines so powerfully ancient as Jon’s would be a creature closer to the realm of the gods rather than men.

Jon certainly was inspiring, that was at least a truth set in stone.

When Rhaenys felt Jon remove himself from their embrace, she clasped his hands in her own and looked intently at him. “We have a great deal to discuss, Jon.”

Sighing heavily, he guided her to a chair. “You’re displeased. I can tell.”

Squaring her shoulders, Rhaenys kept her indigo eyes, a twin set not dissimilar to Jon’s, firmly on her husband from where she was seated. “Do I have the right to be displeased?” She did not mean to say it so sharply, but Rhaenys did. Few men accepted a wife with a sharp tongue, but Jon was no ordinary man; he found worth in her word, whether it be counsel or defiance.

Jon rounded the table and stood at its head, placing his fists upon the hardwood. “I did not wed a lickspittle, now did I? It’s your right to ask questions, just as it is my obligation to answer them.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Dany inquired, looking on at length between the two, indecisive whether to start asking further or keep her tongue.

She did not know? Rhaenys found herself further confounded, but pressed on. “Jon has broken his crown in shards. He’s signed a treaty granting the Elder Council autonomous decision-making, damming our imperial authority heavily. You were not aware, dear aunt?”

Dany’s eyes turned wide with surprise, looking at Jon with disbelief and slowly creeping outrage. “You did what? Why would you do such a thing, Jon? And more importantly, why did you not tell us?”

Jon’s body tensed, a defensive reaction he would always do when put to question. “Of course I was going to tell you, I was just waiting for the correct time. Truth be told, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you…?” Rhaenys muttered, drawing their attention. Jon frowned considerably. “Well, do you? The Elder Council is the Emperor’s greatest political rival within the Empire, and you’ve just handed to them lawful power at your own cost. Especially after their duplicity during the civil war. I fail to see how that is ‘knowing what you’re doing’.”

Where did these antagonistic feelings bubble from? She had never taken such a vehement stance against Jon before. Never had she so openly rebelled against Jon’s judgment, even if he took actions she did not approve. A powerful surge of shame threatened to overcome her, and she was ready to give her apology and beg Jon’s forgiveness, but he spoke up first.

“Rhae, what did Father always used to say about politics?”

“An iron fist then, a silk glove now.” Dany said on her behalf, and Rhaenys nodded.

Jon agreed with a nod of his own. “The Elder Council has been deceitful in the past, but the punishment fitted the crime when I dismissed and executed those who partook in the conspiracy. Now, I reward the loyalty of those who stood behind House Targaryen as I commanded them to. We’ve been away for near four years and the newly appointed Elder Councillors have done nought but ruled the Empire with great forbearance in our absence.”

“It is a dangerous move nonetheless, Jon. One that could have heavy consequences.” Dany said obstinately, standing up and crossing her arms.

“It was also dangerous to do nothing, Dany. Negligence breeds disloyalty just as much as ingratitude.” Jon insisted, caressing the signet ring around his finger. The ring Father wore, the ring Aegon wore after him. The ring every Targaryen emperor wore, a physical token of their birthright.

“The Obsidian Throne is the birthright of our sons, of our grandsons, and theirs afterwards. You’ve damaged that birthright the moment you agreed to the Elder Council’s demand, Jon. For Baelor’s sake, we command dragons again, we rule  _supreme_  again. None that can match us anymore. What is it you feared so much that forced your hand?”

Jon gazed at her long and hard, a chill building up there. He was going to reprimand her now. Severely. “Have you forgotten, Rhaenys? Forgotten the sneers and whispers? Forgotten our history?” Jon made a distant face. “Madness and greatness run deep in our family, they say, but more so the former than the latter. On and on they muttered about insanity, wildfire made flesh, of untameable creatures susceptible to the whims of the gods.” Like a ghost, Jon went about, beautiful and regal and haunting, a faraway look in his eyes. “Grandfather Aerys lost his mind, and Father…” A shake of his head, eyes closed in deep sorrow and Rhaenys could feel how her heart was pierced by a hundred needles. “I loved Father, but none of us were blind to his demented glee when we were presented with dragon eggs. "Do you know what they said in the halls, underneath the alcoves and behind hedges?” She feared the next words but nodded nevertheless. “ _How can we be sure his sons will not also fall to insanity_ ? How can we be sure  _we_ will not also fall…? Aegon asked me that, and looked horrified at the implications of those words.”

It was her turn to look at the ground in horror. “I-I never knew…”

“No, because we did not want to burden you.”

“Piss on that…!” Dany shouted, coming to stand up and stomp towards Jon, grabbing his face harshly. “You should have told us immediately! We could have helped you, Jon! Why did you not come to us!?”

Jon grabbed Dany’s wrists and carefully pried her hands away from his hardened face. Her aunt’s hands were shaking. “The burden was mine and Aegon’s to bear, and now, it matters no more, at last. This thought has plagued me for years. And so, after much deliberation, I’ve concluded that such decisions should not rest on one set of shoulders alone anymore. It is not up to me, or you, or any single person to decide the fate of millions of souls.”

Rhaenys felt like weeping. For years, her brothers shouldered a weight so heavy it cast a shadow over their lives. One had died never knowing whether his self-sacrifice had been in vain or not, and the other had bent his knee to his burden. All so that the rest of their kin could live in blissful ignorance, free of any plaguing thought of uncertainties. Rhaenys felt eviscerated, cut open from the inside, bare and raw for the world to chafe at her flesh. It should have been  _her_  responsibility as the eldest sister to carry that burden.

Dany huffed, heavily displeased still, but underneath that steel, Rhaenys saw the pain, the anguish, the sorrow that her beloved had struggled so internally for so long, and was none the wiser about it.

“If our history is a song, then I won’t wait for its reprise.” Jon began to speak after a pregnant pause. “The Dance, the legacy of Aegon IV, Grandfather’s madness, it all was the result of people dealing in absolutes. Our history is full of tragedy and misfortune, where many of our kin died needlessly. I’m done wishing farewells and goodbyes to the people I hold most dear. I won’t let this crown overshadow my duty to my family.”  _As Father allowed to happen_ , went unsaid.

“Very well then, Jon…” Rhaenys sighed. In hindsight, as the decision sunk in, Jon had a very good point. All three of them had seen Rhaegar Targaryen’s commitment to the throne, and how it had cost him his bond with his family. With the decision of delegating more power to the Elder Council, Jon had more free time on his hands raising a family. Ensuring his legacy.

Then why was Jon mobilizing the First Imperial Legion?

“Jon, please explain to me what the Velaryon Fleet was doing in Pentos? I was not aware you were preparing for war. You’ve been executing plans without my knowledge, and it hurts me to know that you keep things from me.”

At least he had the decency to look a small bit contrite, and her husband came to kneel at her side, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “You’re right, I’ve been unfairly quiet about my plans, and that will now come to an end.” Jon picked up a wooden dragon when he rose to his feet, appraising it in his hand with a peculiar gleam. “While I may have given powers to the Elder Council for the reward of more freedom, I still have a multitude of plans lying around that I wish to see fulfilled.” Then, he picked up a piece that seemed to represent a squid. “We’ve had an interesting visitor come to our castle during your absence, sweet sister.” Jon shared a smile between himself and Dany, as if they had told a joke only they knew the meaning of. “An ironborn ‘prince’ washed up on our shores with a very interesting idea.”

Dany giggled behind her hand at the memory, surely an amusing one. “While we questioned this man, Theon Greyjoy, he told us about a very amusing proposition. Unfortunately, his tongue was as greasy as dearly departed Petyr’s cunt, so Jon had him thrown into the dungeon for his constant braggadocio. When our annoyance abated, we brought him before us again, and bless the gods, he decided to speak in a more tempered tongue.”

“Tell me, sweet sister.” Jon whispered, standing behind her chair and kneading the flesh of her shoulders. A flame had sparked to life in the pits of her stomach, spreading across until her loins began to stir. A massage meant only one thing. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘making the eight’?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks, we're getting there. Just a wee bit longer.

  **DRAGONSTONE**

**JON**

Jon had grown up with the knowledge that he and his elder sister did not have the simplest of relationships, even as children of Valyrian blood. When they fully grew into their bodies, a look always flickered between them, hooded, meaningful and heated, a pull towards the other by a veiled tether as thin as a needle.

Even when she kept to Aegon’s bed and Dany warmed his, he could not help the budding desire for his gorgeous sister. Whether they were frightened by the consequences if they warmed each other’s bed or that the attraction between him and Rhae came less naturally, Jon knew not.

In hindsight, there was never normality involved in their family, the bond between Targaryens as intricate as the art of forging Valyrian steel.

Raised as princes and princesses of New Valyria, born with the noblest of blood in their veins and taught from the very first day that the world was theirs by right, children with the blood of Old Valyria were raised with the idea that none in this world were their equals, in power, in splendour and in elegance. None that was worthy of carrying their seed.

None except their own.

A natural attraction was inherent between all young Valyrians as they grew up, whether they were of knowledge of this invisible pull or not.

It was a subconscious tuck at their heartstrings, a pull to one another that made as much sense as the unstable changes of the seasons, but down to its very core so  _ congenital  _ and  _ self-explanatory _ .

By default, Valyrians were awe-inspiring creatures, ethereal and otherworldly with their features as flawless as statues chiselled from marble. Riding dragons only helped propel that notion. Even those not favoured by the bright traits still could count on the aristocratic favour apparent in their looks, from aquiline noses and long fingers to high cheekbones and angular faces.

Historians had approached the Valyrian custom of incest with various responses; the majority viewed it unnatural, and truth be told, it was, but unnatural was a word laced with both fair and ill meanings. One spoke of it with muted admiration and intrigue, though careful in their wording as to not disturb those with gentler constitutions. Others openly rejected it, called those who participated in this tradition deviants and abominations. Whatever they said, it held important meaning.

Jon had seen the glances between Egg and Dany, or the glances between her and Rhae. Even Father looked at Dany with something akin to concealed desire, and Viserys had oft gloated that it would be he who would wed Dany and preserve the purity of their bloodline. Dany never demurred underneath Rhaegar’s intense eyes and neither did she openly refuse Viserys.

Valyrians were born with desire and attraction for their siblings, after all.

Jon had been no exception.

“Mmm, just like that, keep tightening around my fingers, Rhae.”

Jon’s breath came out as little puffs of condensation when a sigh filtered through his lips, a long and needy sound stretched thin and pronounced, chest errantly rising and falling with each gulp of air he took as he fingerfucked Rhae’s sweet cunt, exploring the insides of his sister with a tenderness she breathily described as ‘heaven on earth’.

Jon’s cock was cushioned against the pillows of Rhae’s flat stomach, the glans pressing against her belly button, and from his slightly elevated view, he could see how her dark nipples were hard, erect and poking out, begging him to suckle on. That would be for later, perhaps.

Rhae’s fingers in turn played with the curls of his hair, nails scraping his scalp in slow and fervid circles, making Jon purr like Lyaxes would after she was given a good scratch over her belly.

His other arm had come to rest next to her head, pressing the length of his forearm against her temple and feeling her cheek resting against his elbow, half bracketing her and keeping his weight only on one side. Jon was entwined with Rhae in every possible way; a tangle of limbs they were, the length of her mulatto legs going up and down his calve and then up further until her toes rubbed against the back of his kneecap while her pink tongue licked away the gathering sweat over his chest.

Sometimes, Rhae even took a nipple between her teeth, suckling and flickering the nub softly with the tip of her tongue, causing a bolt of electricity to surge through his cock. It caused the blood to pump faster downwards than anything else, nearly as quick as the feeling of her pretty lips wound tight around his cock. The first time Rhae did that, Jon received a kindling of understanding then how it had to feel for his wives when he took their hard nubs into his mouths or fingers and proceeded to play his fill with their teats.

The amount of pleasure was overwhelming.

The wetness dripping out of his sister’s cunt was abundant, soaking the bedsheets beneath, mixing them with the sweat of their bodies. Mewls, growls and sighs interchangeably rang between Jon’s ears, each of them prickling his frizzled senses with pleasure; there was nothing sweeter than the sounds of a good coupling.

Rhae’s entire face was flushed a pretty pink colour, the sweat over her olive-coloured skin giving her a glowing sheen by the flames of the hearth. Jon had seen few things as beautiful as this.

One of her hands abandoned his curls to slide over his back, nails scratching over the planes of his muscle, leaving thick long marks no doubt, and Jon felt himself speed up fingering Rhae’s lovely slit, squirming his digits within her soaked folds and quite literally scratching the itch in her loins she complained about yesterday.

“Jon…” Rhae moaned out, lightly shaking her head, eyes blazing with need. “Please, I need a taste…” 

Did she want a taste? Then a taste she would get it. Jon lowered himself and slotted their mouths in a loud kiss, one full of ravelled tongue and clashing teeth, exploring his sister-lover’s mouth with ardent purpose. The aftermath of a long Dornish kiss would leave them both in a stupefied daze; those open-mouthed, wet and sloppy kisses stirred the basest of instincts deep within them, turning Jon and Rhae to act like sex-crazed beasts trying to devour the other.

To Jon, it awakened a feeling reminiscent of returning from battle, high on excitement, blood singing and heart throbbing inside his chest like the drums of war. An obsessive need to bury himself balls deep inside his wives would rise from the very pits within Jon after a well-earned victory, a desire to satiate this unadulterated carnal desire for fucking.

And oh how his wives complied with eagerness.

Rhae and Dany were nothing different, both of them down for a long session of fucking just as much as he was. It was why their marriage was so successful, for sex was a potent way of bonding.

And he was thoroughly strung out on it.

Jon ate her responses, Rhae’s muffled moans ringing through his head as they kept kissing. Her womanhood tightened around the span of his fingers immeasurably, desperate for something to be wrung out, and Jon knew exactly what it was her warm folds was eager to search out of his fingers. Unfortunately for her, no seed could be milked out of fingers.

Jon took her bottom lip between his and bit as hard as one could with their teeth lapped over the soft and stretchy skin of their lips. His reward was the arch of her back, closing the gap between, even more, a needy suck on his tongue and added friction between their stomach where his cock was sandwiched. Jon was only a nail’s length away from spilling his seed all over Rhae’s stomach if this went on. That would be a waste of seed. Jon never spent anywhere else but inside his wives, no matter which hole, and he was not of a mind to break that cardinal rule.

Rhae met his ardour bout for bout and ground herself over the length of his cock. Jon broke their kiss to let out a guttural groan, his fingers still inside her sopping cunt, hooked firmly and now digging like a shovel. Rhae twitched a little, a sign of her peak, but then she gave him a frown, the irises of her eyes blown, but still not sated.

“I meant another sort of taste…”

Oh.

_ Oh… _

Chuckling, Jon dislodged his fingers from her cunt, wet with her fluids, and brought them to her mouth. Rhae parted her lips and took three of his fingers into her mouth, tasting the wetness of her cunt. She sucked, and licked, then sucked some more, nibbling on his nails before releasing them with a pop, fingers clean of any fluid. Jon looked at her with fascination and felt his cock spasm painfully at the amatory show he was given, eager now to pluck his sister’s hole as a reward. Rhae smirked just a little bit, the corner of her mouth tucked upwards, smug, challenging and playful.

“I need to feel you inside me…” Rhae whined, desperately keening as she rolled her hips to allow Jon further access between her legs. “Please, your fingers are not enough…” Gently, she pulled at him closer, bringing Jon’s face mere inches from hers, fingers tracing his lips before placing a light peck on them. She gazed at Jon with darting eyes, a daze of sheer lust and need swirling inside them, her bottom lip between her teeth and cheeks aflame. “Fuck me like you own me…”

Jon felt himself slipping, and someone else,  _ something  _ else taking control. Something primal and base and raw and all manners of things he could not name. Its desire he could pinpoint, however, and it was the pure craving of wanting to breed. 

With a grunt, Jon flipped Rhae over, her yelp of surprise delighting him. Rhae bore her perfectly curved arse to him and allowing him to watch her lower lips pink from his attention quiver in anticipation.

Gods, she was impossibly beautiful.

A hand came to caress her full cheeks, and Rhae jiggled a little, chasing the movements of his hand, moaning pitifully all the while as Jon kept stroking the supple flesh of her arse. She was not only eager, she was also  _ desperate _ . It was about time to give her what she wanted.

“Put your hands on the headboard.”

He was met with a questioning look, but not one wholly clueless as realization slowly dawned upon Rhae before she excitedly did as she was told.

Jon aligned himself behind her, his girth finally,  _ finally _ , getting to sheathe itself inside her hot, wet,  _ gaping  _ hole.

“How would you like to be taken, sweet sister?” His girth was going over the crack of her arse, again and again, teasing her.

Rhae glanced over her shoulder, a pleading look on her face. She was on the verge of begging, it looked, with those pouty lips puckered forth and her long eyelashes batting rapidly. “Hard and fast…I want the gods to hear your balls slap against my cunt every time you thrust into me…”

A shudder almost rippled over his spine, but he kept it at bay. Instead, his mouth pulled into a full grin, lustful and aroused.

_ We’ll put the pillow slaves of Lys to shame with our fucking. _

Dany was a true siren, and she revelled in it behind closed doors, but Jon made the mistake of almost forgetting that Rhae also had a bit of a temptress inside her. His beloved sister could simper just as coyly as her white-haired counterpart.

Jon did as he was told when he slid inside her soft folds without preamble, the wetness of his sister’s cunt clouding his mind with pure lust. Rhae’s gasp could be heard all the way from Asshai-by-the-Shadow, laced with so much pent up sexual frustration, now unleashed in a manner of seconds and washing down on Jon, enflaming him throughout his body. He took a second to admire the view of his sister’s arse secured against his pelvis, hearing her musical pants as she patiently waited for his thrusts to begin, before he started to drill hard into her, hands firmly placed upon her hips and guiding himself into his sister’s pulsating womanhood.

Rhae’s voice was strangled, dripping with raw desire, filth spewing out of her mouth like sweet sins as Jon slammed into her again and again, the bed slightly shifting with the weight behind each forceful thrust. Jon was slow, basking in every second, building up his momentum and savouring the tightness of Rhae’s cunt constricting around him more and more; she was a tight fit, a velvety, soft and wet sheath for his sword.

Jon told himself he should slowly thrust forever and lose himself in Rhae’s womanly heat, but he seemed to have deluded himself as it only lasted a brief moment before his hips began to settle on a punishing pace, undulating into Rhae’s sweet cunt with such force that she started to scream out in pleasure. Oh, but she met his thrusts evenly, submissively,  _ willingly  _ surrendering herself to him, further allowing Jon to go as sinfully deep as his cock was allowed to. And deep his cock went, buried all the way until the hilt met her arse, all but gone from his view.

Rhae’s mewls were high-pitched and fervent, the lilt and tone almost as if she was singing her most favourite song. Jon was relentless in his quest, thrusting forward with vigour, allowing his balls to slap against her folds precisely the way Rhae wanted it.

Lost in passion, Jon lifted his hands and wrapped them around the graceful column of her neck, cradling her silky throat with his palms, causing her to arch her back and stick out her bottoms better while Jon took her from behind. He rested his forehead on hers, looking into her eyes intently as he pounded into her. Jon saw the most beautiful pair of eyes gaze back at him, loving as a virtue and dark as a sin.

Jon was fucking Rhae as deep as he could now; oh, he was fucking her all right, merciless and swift with his thrusts, groaning throatily at hearing the beautiful melody of flesh meeting flesh in a constant rhythm. Jon went harder, and faster, and  _ deeper _ , the headboard of their bed ramming against the wall roughly. For a second, Jon feared he was about to break their bed before it faded like vapour. He could replace the damn thing easily.

The sound of Jon’s thighs pounding against Rhae’s arse was as loud as slaps across the face, sharp and snappy, and Jon was sure he would dislocate his hips after this particular pounding he was dishing out.

Rhae did not remain silent at all, throwing away any semblance of dignity and howling as loud as her throat allowed her. The round sides of her tits bounced each time Jon penetrated her hole, and in order make them stop distracting him so, Jon relinquished a hand from Rhae’s throat and grabbed a handful of her breast, feeling it bounce and squelch every time he gave it a generous squeeze. Next to heavy locking lips, tit play also drove her absolutely mad with wanton lust.

The other hand came to find purchase on her shoulder, granting him better footing. His beautiful sister had begun to plead him to fuck her well and thoroughly, and Jon was nothing if not obedient to his sister’s demand, buoyed up to do just that as his hips shot forward with greater effort.

Jon felt his peak coming, the knot inside his stomach about to unfurl, its advent as sure as sunrise and as inevitable as nightfall. Rhae’s words did not do much to quell his gradually fall to his pleasure, only pursuing him further to reach it sooner.

With clenched jaws, Rhae’s name tumbled like a prayer over his lips as Jon clenched his buttocks and seated himself as deep as he could inside Rhae, a final thrust sending forward his seed right into his sister’s ravenous cunt, painting Rhae’s inner walls white with them. The grip on her teat increased, and Jon could feel the fleshy mound spill through his fingers. As Jon spilt, Rhae peaked as well, coiling around his cock like a hot vice, making him groan as he felt his seed draining out of him further. With a last kiss on her forehead, Jon disjoined their bodies. He sat back and admired the beautiful view of Rhae’s reddened rear, her cunt glistening with her fluids while his seed crept out of her hole.

Moments later, the pair wiped themselves off with cleaning towels before ducking back beneath the sheets, fondling each other with roving touches. A hand caressing Jon’s stomach, his fingers going down Rhae’s legs, her mouth on his neck, then his teeth nibbling on her earlobe, little pecks on the cheeks and lips. While Jon and Rhae were more than experienced lovers and shamelessly spirited in bed, afterwards, the soft exchange of touching skin made him think of young lovers cuddling for the first time.

Rhae had her head nestled on top of Jon’s chest, fingers tracing a lazy pattern through the wiry chest hair as she tried to catch her breath. Jon had thrown his arm around her narrow shoulders, pressing her to his side and feeling her soft breasts push against his ribs. He was as breathless as she was.

Rhae shifted her head a bit, looking up to stare at Jon, lips tugged coyly into a smile. “You’re still ready for another round?”

Jon chuckled as he carded his fingers through her hair. “I have a lot to make up for, so that question is moot.”

“No, not really.” She murmured softly, littering small pecks over his scarred chest, her tongue tracing a long mark across his rib, courtesy of the Braavosi first sword Draqarro. The Sealord’s protector was a nimble swordsman and pesky to a fault. When Jon stormed the Sealord’s Palace and demanded Ferrego’s head for his duplicity, the noble protector refused to step aside. One of the few men Jon remembered as a challenge, even with Blackfyre in his grip.

Draqarro Nesten had put up as much a fight as his wives would in bed.

“There was a lot that I needed to rectify. Hopefully, this previous week of me making love to you has conveyed my regrets.” One hand still played with her tresses, while the other went to cradle her cheek, a thumb rubbing the small bags beneath her eye. The greatest delight in a man’s life was to love and be loved by a beautiful woman. Rhae and Dany were women easily capable of rivaling love goddesses.

Jon could feel the adoring smile form against it, Rhae’s lips pressing a kiss on his palm, and quite suddenly, Jon groaned as another soft hand drifted downwards, over his stomach, intent clear on what she wanted to do, but the door into their chambers opened without warning. Jon and Rhae were not perturbed, for the only one bold enough to walk into the bedchambers of the Holy Valyrian Emperor was his bold wife, Empress Daenerys.

“Still abed, huh?” Quirking an eyebrow, Dany went about the room with a lopsided smirk, opening the window to let in fresh air. “I took a long bath, broke my fast with the children in Aegon’s Garden, oversaw the settlement of the legion,  _ and _ …” She flashed a cheeky smile, waving a piece of paper between her fingers. “…I’ve finally found that little poem in the library which got stuck in my head a few days ago. I managed to do all that, and the two of you have been doing nought but fucking each other’s brains out this morn? It’s no wonder this place has caught the scent of a seedy brothel...”

Rhae and Jon shared a grin.

Since she had returned, Jon felt a certain melancholy come off of Rhae, undulating in thick gulfs, holding all of them in some sort of chokehold. Not even Aegon’s cherubic smile helped elevate whatever ailed her mind. Jon was at an utter loss, taken aback by this sudden stroke of depression.

And as per usual, Jon blessed the gods for Dany and her knowing heart, for she was much more insightful than he was and concluded what exactly plagued her beloved niece. Dany took him aside one day when Rhae was too preoccupied in arranging the last agreements and annexes for the Writ of Concordance, the name which they agreed upon for the treaty in Volantis.

_ Rhaenys feels like she has slowly lost your love and trust, Jon, and it terrifies her. You may have not noticed, but I did. I saw her break down and weep in our chambers, begging forgiveness that she did not notice the signs of burden settled upon your and Aegon’s shoulders. You and I are different, we understand each other sooner and feel each other quicker, and thus, I was not so wounded by your silence. She was. Rhaenys needs to know she is of importance to you. Give her a purpose. She’s afraid of being kept in the dark, and I cannot fault her, knowing the past. _

With that, Dany had securely sequestered them in their chambers and demanded Jon to remedy the situation. The result was three long days of uninterrupted and overwhelmingly dedicated lovemaking. He took his sister every way a man could possibly take a woman; slow, rough, gentle or fast. Whatever she wished, Jon did, all the while whispering loving words into her ear.

And now, it looked like the dark cloud hanging over her head had vanished, at last.

Dany clapped her hands. “Get dressed, both of you. There is a great deal of work to do yet.” Pointedly, she looked at Rhae, mock frowning at her with gaiety. “It’s time for you to be responsible again. I’ve allowed this tryst to go on for too long. The stacks of paper on your desk won’t sign themselves.”

Laughing, Rhae threw her longs legs over the edge of their bed and stretched, leaving Jon in bed and answering her aunt with an arched eyebrow, matching her tart. “You sound awfully snappy, dear Dany. Did you bump your toes on a table leg or something?”

Chuckling, Jon threw the sheets off of him, as naked as his sister when he got out of bed. The chill of the morning wind gliding in caused gooseflesh to form over his sister’s arms, and he grabbed her night robe and draped it over her shoulders. Jon gave Rhae a firm swat on her bottoms next, and she smirked through her eyelashes at him as an answer, smug and bold. He had dearly missed this side of her.

“Well, well, well, would you look at that. Someone feels sassy today.” With the speed of a shadowcat, Dany was within a blink in front of Rhae’s sweaty body, wrapping her arms around her neck and pressing her fully clothed body against her, a saccharine smile over her lips as she ground with her silk dress over her. Her head leaned in and Dany took a long whiff, sighing afterwards. “Ah, sex, lilies and sweat. You smell like a perfumed whore, Rhae. A highbred whore, but a whore nonetheless. Did Jon earn your forgiveness yet?”

Rhae merely smirked back, throwing her arms around Dany in answer. “That he did.”

“Good, because now, you ought to give thanks to me for it. After all, I encouraged him to spend these last three days between your legs as a way of apology.” His aunt squinted, thick eyelashes hooding her darkening eyes. Unknowingly, Jon’s cock twitched as Dany lowered the timbre of her sweet voice. There was a certain promise as she spoke, one that stirred the blood inside his veins. Then, she beamed, and the glint was lost. “But not now, of course. Another time.” Dany’s pretty eyes flickered between them. “I want you two washed, dressed and seated at the Painted Table within the hour. Don’t dillydally, Gar and Egg get mischievous when left to their own devices for too long and you know that.”

And with that, she spun on her heels, strutting out with a little sway to her hips. If Jon was not so focused on her arse, he may have caught the smug little smile she threw over her shoulders.

Suddenly, Rhae enveloped her arms around Jon’s neck from behind, breasts squeezing against his shoulders, her searing breath tickling his ear sensually. “Well, shall we begin? Our dear aunt gave us a command.”

He locked eyes with his lovely sister and grinned. “And who are we to disobey her?”

Jon rapped his knuckles over the hardwood of the Painted Table, his eyes roaming over the map diligently and committing every single detail to memory. It was a marvellous piece of work, carved and hewn with artful precision, with small ripples and jagged planes to represent highlands and mountains, little crevices here and there acting as rivers, a big gaping pit in the middlemost likely appearing as some sort of lake, and rough knurls coming in thick thatches taking the place of woodlands.

Several blocks had also been scattered over the Table, some small and others big. The largest was nearly the size of his fist and hugged the topmost ridge of the great lake, carved with five towers jutting out. Another looked like it was shaped like a lion in repose, facing the Sunset Sea. Jon even found something that looked like an eyrie perched within the region of the Mountains of the Moon. When he brushed his hand over it, the dust cleared and indeed, underneath the castle there was carved ‘the Eyrie’.

Jon admired the mere dedication of this table for a solid second, until his brooding bubble was pricked through by Dany’s sweet lilt.

“Jon, it’s about time you reveal your grand plan already on how to start your ‘conquest’. Keep up this silence, and I might see our children get children of their own.” She chirped, picking out something between her nails while Rhae next to her tittered, busy with brushing her tresses. Dany looked hardly interested, but Jon was not fooled by that. Her lack of enthusiasm exactly betrayed her enthusiasm. She was positively bouncing on the heels of her feet.

It was yesterday since Jon broke the idea to them.

_ “You wish to invite other women to bed, Jon? What, do we not satisfy you enough?” Dany quipped lightly, no offence to be found in her words. Hells, it sounded playful even, teasing and light-hearted. _

_ The pillows rustled as Jon solemnly shook his head nonetheless, keen on placating them that it was everything but that. “No, of course that is not the reason. Any day now, I could die of a failing heart because of all this passion I carry for both of you.” _

_ “Then what is the reason?” Rhae muttered instead, glancing warily from his other side. In her, Jon did detect a hint of disquiet. _

_ Jon knew what he was about to say would hurt the both of them, so he decided to choose his words very carefully. _

_ For the past five years of their marriage, a heavy cross had been carried by all three of them and neither of the three was willing to openly address it. The active lack of more heirs. The fault did not lie in trying, gods no, there was no lack of trying in the slightest. Jon bedded his wives with the commitment of a R’hllor zealot to his prayers, his entire heart and soul poured in satisfying them carnally. He had experienced first-hand how they utterly loved his devotion to them. _

_ The result of their copious fucking was two sons. Two beautiful boys. Aegon and Rhaegar were a gift from the gods, and Jon never felt as fulfilled than on the day he carried them in the crook of his arms, eyes full of unshed tears. But their birth was almost four years ago. And Jon was eager for more of his seed to take root. The contention was how he could break that to them as gently as possible. _

_ “A man could not have prayed for better wives than you two. Every day, I thank the go–” _

_ “Oh, do shut up, Jon. We know you’re no bleeding poet, so don’t try it. You love us, we love you, that’s pretty much evidenced by our daily fuck sessions. So quit skirting around the problem like a maiden before her bedding and tell us what this is about.” Dany interrupted abruptly, looking much too amused for what the situation called for. Rhae stared at her with her jaws pried open, eyes blown wide with disbelief, astounded at her sheer audacity. _

_ Even Jon had both his eyebrows shot up so far, they threatened to disappear inside his hairline. And then he roared out a bellyful of laughter. Rhaenys also could not smother her little giggles, and seeing how vivaciously Dany grinned did Jon feel the courage to say the next thing. Count on Dany to diffuse a situation of any sort of pressure. _

_ Jon still brooded a bit about what to say, but it took no aeon for him to steel himself. He drank in the sight of the two lovely women opposite of him and opened his mouth. “I’ll be frank, I wish for more heirs.” Both appreciated honesty, Jon knew, so he did just that, gave them the truth as it was. Jon did not allow their flinches to hurt him, nearly failing to, and carried on. “Five years of blissful marriage has given us two beautiful sons, but it has remained at that. I love Egg and Gar, nothing that will ever stop me from doing so,” Guilt ate at him as he whispered the next words, unable to look them in the eyes. “but I have need of more than two children.” _

_ “That’s fair.” Startled, Jon peered down at Rhaenys when she agreed with him. She met his stare with no hiccup and straightened herself at his side, looking every inch the dragonlady she was. Before him was Empress Rhaenys, his consort and trusted advisor, not a woman driven by emotions, all matters of personal opinions thrown to the wayside. “Our bloodline is on the verge of extinction with one male, two females and two young children making up our dynasty. It’s your right to concern yourself with its continuance.” Her hand found with his, tenderly lacing their fingers together. “We won’t hold it against you if you wish to seek out other bearers of your seed. Am I wrong, Dany?” Their aunt shrugged in answer. Her indifference baffled him to the point of speechlessness. _

_ Jon demurred still. “It’s not with much enthusiasm that I suggest this.” _

_ Scoffing, Dany folded her arms over her chest. “What are you, some milksop celibate? This is every man’s dream come true!” With force, Dany slammed an open palm on Jon’s chest, knocking the wind out of him a little. “Owning a hoard of beautiful women as your harem is the epitome of virility, Jon! Nothing warns people more about your power than that!” _

_ “You…approve of this then?” Jon wanted to clarify after regaining his breath, rubbing the sore spot where he got slapped, still not believing how easily this was going. Jon had mentally prepared a whole list of arguments. Gods, Dany sounded so enthusiastic, as if it was she whose bed would be warmed. What was going through her head? Jon’s mind was swirling with a million thoughts, none of them coherent and comprehensible. _

_ Dany grinned mischievously. “Oh, I approve…” Leaning into his side more, Dany’s enthusiasm emitted out of her like flames of a brazier. A finger came to caress his cheek. “For quite a while, I’ve had a certain desire to see if the princesses of Westeros are as beautiful as the minstrels make them out to be in their songs. Hear this, one bard sang about a princess kissed by fire and loved by water. And another wept about a princess made of gold and emeralds, a smile so bright, it could rival the sun. Can you believe that? Kissed by fire? Made of gold? It sounds like some fairy tale! Are you not willing to see that curiosity sated?” _

_ Well, that explained Dany’s stance on the matter. Now, Jon had to gauge Rhae’s. _

_ With a nudge, Jon garnered his sister’s attention. “And you?” _

_ Placing a finger to her lips, Rhae stewed in her thoughts for a bit. Then, she shrugged too. “I have no qualms with it either, if that’s what you’re worried about. When I grew up in Dorne, Arianne and Tyene taught me a great deal about the nature of women. Some of those lessons involved a lot of skin on skin. I know the pleasures of a woman.” Her eyes darkened suddenly, taking a severe edge. “But I warn you, Jonothor Targaryen, any woman you decide to take to bed will never come above our status. Do you hear me?” Climbing atop of him, Rhae came to straddle Jon, her thighs placed firmly at either side of his, trapping him. The lips of her sex rubbed over his cock, making Jon hiss as his hands braced her hips. “They can name themselves Targaryen spouses all they want, but...” A pair of soft hands were putting a pleasant pressure upon his chest. “…only Dany and I will ever know the true meaning of dragon mothers, and you will only know two empresses. They can be your concubines or whatever euphemistic moniker you wish to bestow upon them. Call them your whores for all I care.” _

_ Jon smirked, fingers dancing over the skin of her hipbones. “I prefer…imperial consorts.” _

_ “How gracious of you.” Dany said from above, her cunt hovering over his mouth. Oh, he knew where this was going to. “Rhae’s right, however, we will brook no other rival to our status. You will take them, bed them, and put a child in them and that’s the end of it.” _

_ Well then, that settled it. _

_ The first step of their dynastic restoration had been taken. _

_ Now, to plan it and execute it. _

The most obvious route was war. Yet, Jon was not comfortable with that notion, tired of resolving issues with violence, fire and blood. So were his wives.

“A war of conquest is indeed the easiest way of finding yourself nubile maidens, but as you said, we should not opt for war. It will heavily injure your legitimacy as the people will not take kindly on a foreign invader demanding daughters as spoils of war.” Rhae considered her thoughts, looking over the length of the Painted Table with a compound expression. She was trying hard to come up with a solution, as did Jon, but both of them were falling short on finding it.

Dany opened her mouth to speak and said. “Well, there is no need for it in any case, as far as I’m concerned.”

Jon frowned, confused. “Explain that claim.”

Dany gave him a shrewd little smile “We do not need to actively subjugate the kingdoms of Westeros, just demand obeisance as a superior realm. As the sole dragonlord, you stand at the zenith of power, and the world should heed and respect that. Declare yourself suzerain over them and demand tribute as the Holy Valyrian Emperor; as the most powerful man alive, capable and willing to conquer their realms if they do not obey.”

“Ah, that is indeed a clever solution, sweet aunt.” Rhae agreed with a convinced smile, rising from her chair and coming to stand next to their aunt, patting her shoulders proudly. “The YiTish did something similar once. By establishing a tributary system, they facilitated trade and peace between the kingdoms around them, putting a stop to all their endless squabbles. In return for their deference, the God-Emperor bestowed upon them gifts and aid, further bolstering the relationship between them all. We can emulate that and do something similar. It will spare us a great deal of administrative burden, violence and ill-conceived opinions should we implement the tributary system.”

Jon nodded, liking the idea very much. He admitted that conquest was not one he was looking forward to. Jon had seen the consequences of war with his own eyes. None should be subjugated to such horrors. He resolved to spare the people that if he could. Enough blood had been shed in his lifetime.

But there had to be a caveat, for all this sounded too ideal. “And what if they refuse to bend to our will? What if they refuse this generous proposition?”

Both Dany and Rhae traded a grimace. “They would be hard-pressed to do so. What do they have to lose, sans a bit of pride?”

“For some, pride means everything.” Jon argued. He was stretching the idea, seeing if there were any gaps within their plan. For sure, there were gaps, but he wished to have them in the open, let their value sink in and be considered freely between the three of them.

Dany’s face darkened. “Then that means that they are fools. Let their wisdom speak for itself. We’ll see if Rhaegal, Aegonax and Lyaxes will see battle again or not.”

At the end of it all, it could result in fire and blood anyhow, and Jon sighed, weary and reluctant, but he resolved. Not everything could end in a round of ales for everyone and a firm pat on the back. Jon held the crown, he was in charge. He would take charge if necessary. The future of his dynasty came before all else. If stability meant war, then so be it. Jon had no desire of becoming king of the ashes, yet, nothing was as fertile as the remnants of a field of fire.

Jon could erect a new house from the ashes of the former’s should they refuse to bow.

When Jon stood up, he let out a pondering rumble, ambling around the chamber with measured steps, eyes still stuck on the Painted Table and mulling over their plan as he gazed at the blocks representing the regional capitals of this continent.

Jon knew for a truth not all of these Westerosi kings would wordlessly bow to his will. He was being gracious, that he knew, yet his goodwill came with a price. Jon was sure not all of them would appreciate how steep it was.

But that was on their shoulders to realize.

“Now, how to announce this to the kings of Westeros? How to tell them that the Dragon Emperor has come to claim a new garden for his seeds?” Dany wondered archly. A quill and inkpot were already brought on the table by a young page. Dany told him to straighten the parchment, which he did with a straightedge.

“Oh, I know exactly how to herald our intentions.” Rhae left her chair, took the quill from Dany's hand and sat down on her lap to begin and write. 

> _ To the great kings of Westeros. _
> 
> _ From this day forth, His Magnificence, Jonothor of House Targaryen, First of His Line, Holy Valyrian Emperor and Sovereign of the Free Cities hereby proclaims himself Suzerain of the Sunset Kingdoms by right of divinity. _
> 
> _ Pay tribute and recognize the supremacy of His Magnificence, and you shall be allowed to keep your crown, throne and lands as well as be bestowed upon generous boons and favours. Defy the Emperor's will, and you will be thrown down humbled and destroyed. _

Jon looked on at length at the little parchment he held in hand, impressed at the curly calligraphy of Rhae’s hand looking, almost as pretty as art, reading the words for a second time.

“It will certainly convey a strong message.” Jon said as he rolled it up and gestured with two fingers for the page to come hither. He gave him the scroll. “Hand this over to Maester Gyldayn, Perry. Tell him on behalf of the Emperor that he is to replicate this message and send it to all corners of Westeros. I want every single king to know that the dragon demands tribute.”

The boy, Peregrine, nodded obediently and filtered out of the door, intend on pleasing his lord. Jon stepped up and glided a hand over the Kingdom of the North, smiling at the thought of seeing it finally. He always wanted to see his mother’s home up close. Now was his chance.

His first destination of this endeavour would be Winterfell.

There, he would treat with his uncle, Eddard Stark, the King in the North and Lord of Winterfell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then, the 'conquest' has been announced. The message is assertive and bold, but what else would we expect from our lovely, holier-than-thou, haughty Targaryens?
> 
> I'm usually not a comment whore...but I'd like to hear what you think of this pivotal chap, because it's a breaking point.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this is sooner than my 'update thursday' I really struggled writing this particular chapter, because it's full of hard exposition and no smut, or even a hint of it....and because Sansa is always a delight to write. Book Sansa, not that 'Cersei 2.0' lass we got in the show... I hope I might amend a little what that atrocity did to one of my favourite characters in the books.

**WINTERFELL**  

 **SANSA**  

 

Dawn inevitably crept up the stria of the horizon, grey beams of muddled sunlight peering through the slight crevices of the wool curtain’s draped at the sides of Sansa’s windows. The chill of the wind ensured a fresh stream of air to slither through her room. It served to make her shiver just the slightest bit as well; it may be summer, but the North had always a part of winter around, never truly liberated of its cold and unflinching company. Summer snow, as strange as it sounded, was not as strange a sight here in the North.  

The furs atop of her bed were entangled and twisted between her stockinged legs and bunched up around her arms, the wiry hairs tickling her nose a little and the rough feel of bearskin slightly grazing her flesh. Sansa's silky nightshift was a mess of crinkles, courtesy of her supine form, and as the dull light began to bear down on her did Sansa moan a little in discomfort, hand over her eyes to block out the offensive light.  

Sansa was half awake and half asleep, finding herself between the two worlds eerily; while her mind was escaping the latches of sleep, her limbs remained vacant of feel, dazed by sleep yet, as though spellbound to torpor. With great effort, Sansa broke through her bodily impasse, blood coursing through her as fast as a swaying snowflake, and Sansa regained sway over her joints and sinews yet again. Stretching through her furs, she began to rouse, the joints popping pleasantly, the scent of dewy meadows and snow-caked earth sharpening her senses.   

A rainstorm had rumbled yesternight around Winterfell, its careworn aftermath lingering, grounds of the bailey muddy, kennels flushed and the stable roofs almost torn from their beams. Even the wolf's den had not been safe, and Sansa was reminded of her beloved Lady's smelly fur with a crinkled nose when she ushered the creature towards the stores. Father had been beside himself the previous eve, half a mind to bring the horses, dogs and direwolves inside the castle just to spare them from the unrelenting shower, but then risk them to run rampant in the event of a lightning bolt cracking with thunderous power, sending them into a frightened frenzy. Sansa made a mental note to go and check on her Lady laterwards the day.   

At that moment, a soft pair of knuckles rapped across her door, causing Sansa to moan against her pillow, bereft and tired. She begged the gods for a little more respite.  

“Princess? Are you awake, yet?” The voice belonged to the steward’s daughter, her lady-in-waiting and closest friend, Jeyne Poole. “Your Grace, I’ve come to brush your hair and help you in your corset. You told me yesterday to arrive at first light to prepare you for your cousin’s arrival.”  

Sansa shot straight up in her bed, wide awake, frantic like a prodded animal, her face pale and blue eyes blown like moons, like the time Arya had splashed cold water over her face as a cruel jape.   

How could she forget!? Today her cousin, Emperor Jonothor Targaryen, and his entourage would be arriving in Winterfell and at long last meet his maternal family! Her legendary cousin, the Last Dragon, a man with grand repute and virility.   

Oh, how many times she had swooned while reading the deeds and hearing the songs about the Dragonlord and his kin. The warrior prince who had led great armies on the back of a massive dragon. Who ended the civil war which the city-states of the east suffocated from five years ago. Who valiantly fought to avenge his fallen family with fire and blood.    

Emperor Jonothor was the theme of myths, a prince straight out of a song. Minstrels sang of his great deeds far and wide, praising his magnanimity, bravery and strength. Others lamented of the fate that had befallen his once illustrious dynasty, a heart-breaking tragedy of a family torn apart by treason and misfortune and killed by their loyalty and love for each other.   

Sansa had openly wept a few times about the tragic death of her aunt Lyanna and her beloved Rhaegar; the bards sang threnodies about how the two, in their last moment, embraced their lover as dragonfire engulfed them, finding safety and peace in the arms of each other. Oh, how her heart had clenched and shuddered at the haunting melodies of their lament.   

Another round of knocking and Sansa was brought back to the nonce, once again hearing Jeyne’s thin voice requesting entrance. Sansa rose from her bed in a flurry, hurriedly lifting the latch and opening the door into her room, beckoning for her friend to enter. Jeyne spilt inside, brush and several sewing materials in her arms, smiling giddily.   

“Goodness, Princess Sansa, we have much to do. The castle is asleep still, so we have the fortune of silence on our side. We can concentrate better without the clatter and clamour of passing servants. Come on, we must make haste.” Jeyne beamed, dropping their knitting needles on the table alongside the dress they had been working on.   

Word had come a sennight ago that Emperor Jonothor landed in White Harbour and was feasted in New Castle at the pleasure of Lord Wyman Manderly. He came on a giant black ship and was escorted by a cohort of fiercely looking dark-clad soldiers, the messengers from White Harbour informed. A massive winged creature also kept to the sky, the one the songs called the Emperor's Shadow.   

The next day came and Lord Manderly had informed her father of Emperor Jonothor's departure as he headed up the White Knife towards Winterfell. It was but a mere five days ride from White Harbour to Winterfell. The raven telling of her cousin's leave had arrived five days ago, and thus, it meant that her cousin was most likely due today.   

Giddy at the prospect, Sansa all but skipped on her feet across her room, picking needle and fabric to start her work with a beaming smile. She could not wait to bear her eyes down on her acclaimed cousin.   

The daughters of Ser Wylis Manderly, Wynafryd and Wylla, were dear friends of Sansa and they had written her the day Emperor Jonothor parted from White Harbour. By the Seven did they swoon and gush over him like he was their fantasy come alive! They told her all about his pale beauty, his mild manners and singular charisma.   

Both Manderly ladies were not easily impressionable, but judging by their words, her cousin had all but swept them off their feet during his visit. It stoked the flames of curiosity inside Sansa's heart like nothing else. Emperor Jonothor seemed like a dream, quintessential for marriage.  

When her cousin's praise had reached Sansa, she doubled her efforts on her work, determination her only companion during the nights when she kept knitting. Almost a sennight long Sansa had been embroidering her dress with the devotion of a septa to propriety; her scabbed fingers were evidence just how far she was willing to knit together the most perfect gown for the occasion. Jeyne had been helpful, but Sansa was stubborn in not letting her dear friend assist her too much. This had to be her magnum opus.   

Never again would a chance such as this one be presented to her; to meet and treat with the most powerful man alive, who also happened to be her kin. Sansa wanted to be seen at her utmost. Her mother had raised her as such. She carried the honour of being a princess at the age of three, and Sansa was determined to show what that honour meant.   

“Do you have that lace I asked you to bring along from the storage? It came to Winterfell from White Harbour yesterday, and I was too deep in discussion with Mother about organizing the castle to pay it any heed and bring it here.” Sansa said, washing her face and hands above a bowl of water. She had it replaced the night before, not wanting to have her doors creak open by the maids and rouse her from sleep. Sansa needed every ounce to not look haggard, but at once, she also did not wish to sleep longer than was necessary. A lot had to be yet done before she looked perfect for her cousin.  

Her friend parted with a nod as she held up the silver lace in the candlelight. It was sheeny and charming, an indulgence imported from Myr by her father at her entreaty (whining, Arya scoffed as a correction, the little savage that she was), so she could add it to her dress.   

Her dress was mostly finished, truth be told; the tight sleeves with chiming bells at the hem, the dark fur-trim along her bodice and the layered woollen skirt with patterns like weirwood leaves, all of it was finished, the dress itself coloured in a luscious velvet green colour with eggshell blue adornments over the bodice. Around the collar was chestnut brown ermine fur, soft and curly as sheep’s wool. The only thing missing about it were the silver laces for the back, and then it would be perfect.  

Sansa gathered some dry cloths, slipping off her woollen stockings and throwing them into a basket. “Before I can wear it, I need a bath and brush the tangles out of my hair. Inform the maids to bring in water for my tub, Jeyne.” Her friend was near the door, one foot outside, but Sansa forgot something. “Oh! I need those scented oils as well. Lavender or citrus, one of the two will do.”   

Jeyne nodded and quickly left while Sansa was busy shimmying out of her smallclothes, grabbing a woollen robe to conceal her modesty while she waited. Not long after and a throng of maidservants scurried inside, carrying buckets of hot and cold water. They unloaded the buckets into her tub one after the other, one of them, Mavis was her name, eldest of the maids, stroking the waters warily to test the heat. She gestured for another girl, Lily, to throw in a bucket of cold water, and then rinsed her hands again through the tub’s content.  

“Tis fine now, Your Grace. Not hot o’ cold, pleasant on the skin.” Her long mousy hair bobbed as she spoke with a little stutter, eyes cast down demurely.  

Sansa nodded, pleased, and stepped into the tub, her foot meeting the comfortable embrace of slightly hotter than lukewarm water. “Thank you, Mave. The scented oils?”  

“Right here, milady.” Elsa said, offering three glass vials with differing content.   

“Good, all of you can go now.” Sansa dismissed them, fully stepping into the bronze tub and submerging herself till her neck, hearing the door of her bathroom close with a thud. A full ten seconds she allowed the water to seep into her, sighing in delight, the waters opening her drowsy muscles like the mouths of a dam, strength and sensation coursing through the veins again, her blood running more fluent with each passing second. Then, Sansa began to scrub her skin red, using an unscented bar of soap to wash off the morn from her body.   

An hour later, and a long while drying off puckered skin, Sansa stood before her looking glass in nothing but a fresh pair of smallclothes, rubbing the scented oils over the pylon of her thin neck, her clavicle and behind her ears. Citrus, she absentmindedly noted, a smile spreading over her lips. Hopefully, her cousin would also enjoy its smell. Sansa uncorked another veil, the rim smelling of roses, and she dabbed it a bit on her hand, rubbing them together before going up across her arms. Sansa held nothing back to appear as prim and proper as possible for Emperor Jonothor. She would pull out all the tricks she had in order to leave a lasting impression and put the idea of marriage inside his mind.  

Then, Sansa picked up a tooth cleaning twig, its end gnawed and splintered softly. Dipping it into a little jar filled with a paste of mashed mint flowers, she brushed her teeth tenderly, mindful of her gums. When she was satisfied, she spat out, rinsed her mouth and dried her face off before once again entering her bedchamber.   

Sansa slipped on a new pair of woollen stockings before she donned the dress, tying the laces of her corset with Jeyne's assistance. Ambling back to her looking glass, Sansa took a moment to admire herself.  

The dress made her look as fresh and vibrant as green button flowers during spring, silk slippers dancing and making her twirl a little in front of the mirror, her emerald skirt billowing gracefully. The curves of her narrow waist were neatly accentuated, the swells of her full breasts underlined and the width of her hips looked modest but significant to demonstrate her feminine charms.    

Sansa smiled at herself the mirror, cheeks flushed a healthy red and blue eyes alight with mirth; she hoped her cousin would find her radiant. Her queen mother had praised her beauty numerous times when she brushed a hand through her hair, so Sansa reckoned that there was no way Emperor Jonothor would find her anything but beautiful. Her mother was a great beauty herself, second only to her, the lords always said, so to hear from her mother how beautiful she was could not be anything else but validation.  

Jeyne was sitting on her bed, patiently waiting for her princess, her fingers playing with the hairs of the whalebone brush. Looking up when Sansa stopped admiring herself, her dear friend gestured for the stool and came to stand behind her when Sansa took her seat before her vanity.   

Nimble fingers twirled her auburn tresses with a light hold before the brush came down upon her mane and Jeyne got rid of any knots in her hair. Usually, it was as soft as spun silk, but Sansa had taken extra care to wash her hair a bit with a peculiar cream that softened the hair even further.   

“How would you like your hair, princess? I’m sure the Emperor would love southern hairstyles.” Jeyne asked, brushing until her lock resembled liquid copper. Her friend began to test the softness of their texture, humming approvingly, twirling some here and there around her finger.  

"Make them as intricate as you can." Sansa pointed towards a drawer. "I've got a pair of hairpins over there. Use them to keep the plaits in place."   

Her friend did as she was told and fished out the pretty fids from her end table, appraising them with a glint. They were nameday gifts from her mother when she turned six-and-ten three years ago, pretty little things if a bit painful to wear for a prolonged time. They were long, pointy and encrusted with little gemstones like amethysts and rubies. Mother had them made by the greatest goldsmiths In Lannisport and Sansa had worn them throughout the today with unrestrained pride, not even regretful of the prickly ache at the end of the day when she removed them from her locks. Jeyne and Beth had gushed over them endlessly and Sansa had taken their compliments in stride.   

Arya eventually grew tired of all the praise Sansa got, green with envy of course, and hid her pins for a sennight, to her great dismay. The following days were bloodier than King Theon's campaign across the Narrow Sea and the Stony Shore, both girls at each other's throat and out for blood. Peace did not return to the castle until Robb pleaded with Arya to give them back.   

Jeyne was good with her fingers, a nifty hairdresser, and in only a few minutes was she done with braiding Sansa's hair.  

"Do you reckon His Magnificence is handsome?" Jeyne wondered idly, tucking a little harder on her auburn tresses, coiling it in a way that caused her roots to tingle a bit.   

Sansa remembered Wylla's letter. "The ladies of White Harbour wrote to me about my cousin in great detail. They say his comeliness is haunting and exceptional; pale as a vampire and just as handsome. Valyrians have always been described as creatures of otherworldly beauty. I assume my cousin is no exception."  

"Would he have blonde hair, like Ser Harrold Arryn and Prince Joffrey Lannister? Or mayhaps favour a darker nature the likes of Ser Waymar Royce or Prince Edric Durrandon?"  

Sansa smiled in her thought as she remembered how the Manderly daughters waxed over her cousin. "Lady Wylla described him as dark and solemn as the eve of battle, with sharp purple eyes the colour of indigo. In general, they described him to be handsome, beautiful even, but his eyes were what drew them the strongest."  

Sansa preferred the latter. Her dreams had always been starred by fair-haired knights and princes, but Ser Harry the Arse dashed her lofty expectations of blonds when the oaf and his entourage visited Winterfell once for a formal visit, looking for a royal bride no doubt.   

Smitten at first, Sansa all but smiled like a giddy maiden during the honorary feast when the winged knight of the Vale offered to have a dance with her. She was in for a grand surprise in what came next. Sansa had suffered a grand disappointment when that rogue's hand travelled down her back one too many times and proceeded to grope her arse like she was some cheap tavern wench.   

Robb had caught sight of Harry's unwelcome advances and it took three men to pry her brother off of Harry as he grabbed the Arryn heir by his collar and smashed him against the wall for his insolence, intend on crooking his pretty little nose.   

The memory had soured her favours for blondes, and the Young Lion's repute did not salvage that either; rumour had it that Prince Joffrey had a cruelty streak from the Wall to the Prince's Pass.   

So, she settled for more stark looking men. Sweet Domeric was a good example, but the Dreadfort heir was already betrothed to Alys Karstark. Ser Waymar was another, but alas, he had sworn off lands, wives and glories. For a soon-to-be sworn brother and third son, he was also a bit too cocksure for Sansa's taste. Not that Sansa would settle for the third son of a noble family, but it was the thought that counted. Marrying her famous cousin, however, that was certainly an option Sansa was more than amenable towards.  

Jeyne's fingers had left her hair, and Sansa appraised herself in the mirror for a bit. By the Maiden did she look pretty! A squeal had to be suppressed elsewise Sansa risked demeaning her proper status in front of her friend.   

Her plaits had been done in the southern style of Highgarden, complex twists and coils behind her head held in place by her golden pins. It looked like she was wearing a lion's mane of fire and light. There was no doubt that Sansa could rival the most beautiful maidens of the south with the way she looked now.  

A proud smile spread over Sansa's face, and her friend mimicked it. "Let's go, princess. Surely, the castle is rousing from sleep and preparing for the Emperor's arrival. There is much to do."  

Sansa agreed and the pair left the confines, stepping through the halls arm in arm. The family wing indeed had been already awake as she saw her younger brother Bran fidget a little with his grey and white doublet, his ruddy hair a rat's nest of tangles, face still stricken by clouds of sleep. Mother had her hands correcting his collar and her brother scowled a little in petulance.   

"Mother, for the third time, Robb can groom me, I'm no more a child. Do you not find this odd, still fussing over your son who is three-and-ten already?" Bran nagged, his cheeks pink from embarrassment.  

The crow's feet around her mother's eyes deepened with her disapproving frown. "I groomed your brother till he was seven-and-ten, and he still comes to me for advice every time we're hosting a noteworthy lord, and this time, we'll be welcoming an emperor. I will have no child of mine strut in anything but their finest clothes for today. You will swallow down your pride and let your mother do as she pleases, young man."   

"Mother! What does Emperor Jonothor care for appearances? He's come to receive our fealty, not gain tips on fashion..." Bran continued to futilely argue, but a firm tuck on his cheek silenced him.   

"Now you'll watch that witty tongue of yours, Brandon Stark. Go see what your little brother is up to. I want you both to look like the Stark princes you're ought to personate. Today will be no playing with the wolves, no running around the castle, no tumbles, and most of all..." Mother jabbed a finger into Bran's chest. "...no climbing."  

His face fell, and Bran's lips parted to further argue, but Mother looked him square in the eyes and frowned further, shutting him up. With a grumble, Bran darted off in search of Rickon. He gave her a short 'good morrow, sister', one she had no time to reciprocate as he already rounded a corner, and her mother then turned to see Sansa pass by, eyes lit up like oil lanterns.  

"Oh, my dear, you look most radiant!" Her hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs stroking over them, Tully blue eyes drinking in her daughter. "The Maiden in the flesh. Even the ladies and princesses of the south would look green with envy, cursing at your beauty."   

"Thank you, Mother." Sansa curtsied in thanks, further delighting her mother.  

"At least I have no need to henpeck you, my love. Your younger brothers are a handful as is, and gods give me strength with preparing Arya..." Her sister would sooner be caught died than wearing a gown, no matter the occasion. Sansa already felt pity well up for her poor mother.   

More oft than not did Sansa find Arya with twigs stuck in her wild hair, elbows and knees scrapped red and mud dripping from her boots. Gods, she could put even the wolves to shame with her wild nature.   

Sometimes, Sansa really did wonder if Father had found Arya in some reed basket along a creek and took pity on her. The only thing that halted her theory that Arya was not a Stark, but some wildling babe was that Rickon shared his older sister's wildness. Those two were thick as thieves, as much as Bran and she were. It mayhaps was a cruel thought to have, but Arya could be such a nincompoop that it warranted a vicious retort once in a while.  

"Come along now, your father and the rest are waiting for us in the Great Hall. We'll be breaking our fast before the order of day requires our attention. While a rider has not yet informed us of your father's nephew and how far he is yet to travel, we must still be at attention at all times." Sansa took her friend's arm and tucked her further through the hall, following the Stark matriarch.  

Mother was a dedicated woman to courtesy. Sansa could not help but admire her for it. The day had just begun, but already, the Queen in the North, Catelyn Tully, was listing and considering all and everything for the grand feast held in honour of Emperor Jonothor.   

Admittedly, when Father announced the Dragon Emperor's intention to come north and meet his maternal family, Father acted like a man riddled with anxiety and apprehension, a wolf with bristling fur and bared fangs cornered by pelt hunters. For whatever reason, Sansa knew not. What could be such a burden on her unshakeable father's shoulders that would cause him to pace and brood more than he usually did? His visits to the godswood had tripled since the raven telling of her cousin's voyage had arrived.  

Her thoughts were torn asunder and pushed away when the smell of freshly baked bread invaded her nostrils. Sansa sighed as the scent of butter and eggs came wafting along, making her tummy grumble with appetite and her mouth water. Alongside a few straps of sizzled sowbelly dipped in grease, it was a perfect start for the day.   

Sansa was not one to indulge her appetites, aware of their aftermath, yet seeing as the day would be quite hectic and demand a great deal out of her, a hearty breakfast was a must.  

Alongside her mother and Jeyne, Sansa stepped into the bustle of the Great Hall, Northmen of various status going about their work, servants carrying around trays with tankards of ale, bowls of stew and baskets of bread atop. Jeyne quickly disentangled herself from Sansa, bid her goodbye and went to sit with Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's daughter.  

A group of men-at-arms dipped their heads at the sight of their queen and princess, some uttering a gruff 'Your Graces' before wolfing down the rest of their meals and leaving the table. Sansa and Catelyn answered back courtly before nearing the high table, courtesy dictating their routine.   

Father sat in his weirwood throne, the bronze crown perched on his head winking at Sansa with a dull gleam. Her father was already dressed as formal as today demanded of him, his dark fur cloak hanging over the back of his throne, his finest pair of breeches and lizard-lion leather boots and the brown leather jerkin on his body proudly carved with the sigil of a snarling wolf, House Stark's emblem.   

"Good morrow, my dears." Father greeted them with affection, Mother smiling down at him before taking her seat to his left. Sansa was next to her mother's. Robb was to Father's right, too deeply distracted by his talks with Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole to notice them take a seat. Father gave him an elbow and Robb jerked, surprised, and then noticed his mother's stern face. He sheepishly wished them good morrow and then went back to eating his broth, again speaking with Maester Luwin.   

"Some roasted bread, love?" Father asked her as a servant came by to place a plate full of baked egg, and Sansa nodded happily, taking the basket her father offered, two pieces for herself and then passing it up to her mother. Bran had discretely taken his seat next to Sansa, as if in trouble and not wanting Mother to notice, hair wet and neatly brushed into a proper princely coiffeur. Not even the steps of a mouse escaped her mother's hawk-like senses.     

"Where is your brother, Bran? Did I not tell you to see to it that he's sought after?" Mother said, tearing off pieces of bread and dipping into her broth.   

Bran mumbled something inaudibly. The Great Hall was already filled with plenty of murmurs and talks, the greatest topic being Emperor Jonothor's upcoming arrival, and so, it was a difficult feat to pick up hushed conversations.   

Tapping her fingers on the wood, Mother then picked up her cutlery and pointedly started cutting into her buttered sowbelly, soaking her bread a little in the grease, face still in that pinched look. "I'm not asking much from you children and still, most of you manage to grey my hairs further with each passing day. Must I always hover above you all and make sure you do as you're told?"  

"It's not my fault, Mother! I couldn't find Rickon anywhere, and I'm tired of running after him like he's still a babe waddling on stubby legs! He spends too much time with Arya and Shaggydog to learn any proper manners! If Rickon needs to temper down, it's Arya who's supposed to rein herself in first!"   

Mother placed her cutlery back on the table, as slow as a phantom, and Sansa and Bran knew that that did not bode well. Even Father stopped mid-bite, looking at the exchange with bemused eyes.  

Their mother looked like she was about to rain the seven hells on Bran for his impudence, but Sansa was quick to interject, placing a comforting hand on Catelyn's arm. "Don't worry, Mother, after we've broken our fast, I'll help out Bran in searching Rickon and see to it that he's clothed properly. Please, you already have enough on your mind, Bran didn't mean what he said, he is just agitated. Right, Bran?"  

Bran was meek enough to nod contritely, knowing Sansa intervened so she could save his skin from Mother's righteous wrath. Catelyn merely heaved, tired but placated, and went back to eating her eggs, her queenly mask firmly in place again. Sansa gave Bran a look, telling him to hurry up and eat his meal quickly.   

The pair finished and asked their parents for leave. Sansa and Bran strode through the corridors in search of their little rascal of a brother.   

"I swear to the old gods and the new, why does Rickon always get itchy feet on important days? He's always prowling with Shaggydog in the mud when the castle needs us all at our best. I also want to spend time with Summer or climb the walls, but there is a time and a place for everything, Domeric always used to say." Her little brother said, crossing his arms.  

"Always the dutiful little princeling, aren't you, sweet Bran?" Sansa teased him, patting his shoulder lightly.   

Bran did not appreciate her teasing. "Well, someone has to be. Robb is Mother's firstborn, so anything he does she'll see through her fingers on the basis of him learning how to rule, but I? It's so unfair...I always have to chaperone Rickon like some wet nurse..."  

Smiling sympathetically, Sansa was about to praise her little brother for his diligence, but the sound of a blasting horn interrupted her before she could. Brother and sister stifled as the horn continued blowing. It could only mean one thing.   

Emperor Jonothor's retinue had been spotted.   

Lifting the hem of her skirt, Sansa hastened her gait, a cross between running and walking. Bran had grown as tall as her, and on top of that, he had a budding physique, so his strides were larger. They turned a different corner than the one they intended, taking back the route towards the Great Hall. Descending a pair of stairs, Sansa and Bran were greeted by a throng of guards going through the halls with spears at the ready.   

Sansa spotted her parents having a discussion with Vayon Poole, and her father looked over Alyn's shoulder and gestured for them to come near.   

"A Manderly rider just passed the gate; Jonothor is almost here, marching across the wolf's road due north of Castle Cerwyn. He'll be here within the hour. We'll be welcoming him in the courtyard. Come children, we must not dawdle." Her mother took her father by the arm and the royal pair led the way towards the courtyard, she, Robb, and Bran right behind them. Rickon and Arya were still missing.   

"Mother will have my head if Arya and Rickon miss the welcome of our imperial cousin." Bran groaned, and Robb merely shook his head in amusement.   

"You worry too much, little brother." He tapped Bran's chin lightly with his knuckles. "At the end of the day, it's Father Emperor Jonothor wishes to see, not us. As such, I'm sure he won't show any interest in us." Sansa disagreed and smirked in front of her.  

"Speak for yourself, Robb. All men look at a beautiful woman when she puts the effort in her appearance. Emperor Jonothor is no exception. I'm more than certain that I can garner his attention. A man such as he is in need of a dutiful wife." An amused quirk of his eyebrow met her eyes. "What?"  

"Have you not heard? Jonothor is married already." Sansa whipped her head to look at her brother, horrified, lips and chin quivering. Why was she not told of this sooner!? Her heart dropped a little as the news sank in. "Our cousin is not only married to one, but two women, and he has fathered children already. Targaryens are an interesting bunch, for certain. Rumour has it his wives are his half-sister and aunt. I cannot even imagine how that is acceptable."  

Her thoughts were scrambled, thrown into a blend of horror, shock and disbelief. Breathing, Sansa tried to calm herself; her lungs were in need of air, and a certain flush washed through her belly, cold and numbing as melted ice. A thick dollop of saliva glided through her gullet, her mind wandering deep in her inner thoughts while her legs dragged Sansa through the earth of the courtyard without her even noticing that they had arrived at their destination. As she calmed down, a heavy disappointment latched on to her, her heart breaking a little piece by piece as the realization dawned upon her.  

_Jonothor is already married..._

_Already has two children..._

_Two wives already warm his bed..._

_I have no hopes of ever swaying him to love me..._  

All of them stood in a line, Father and Mother amidst most, Robb to his father's right, and Sansa to his side, going from eldest to youngest. The rest of Winterfell's household was standing behind them, filling the courtyard with more and more people of lesser status. Looking behind her, Sansa recognized Jeyne and Beth speaking in hushed whispers with each other, Vayon and Jory scolding them into silence.  

Slacking her shoulders, downcast and a little sullen, Sansa mulled and stewed from where she was standing. Gods, if she had known earlier that the man of her dreams was already wed, Sansa could have prepared herself better for the blow, but this sudden drop of news coloured her entire day grim, thick with disappointment and heartache.  

Suddenly, Sansa was no more looking forward to her cousin's arrival.  

And when she realized that, Sansa felt awful for thinking that.    

The entirety of Winterfell's denizens had assembled, at last, the last onlookers pouring in from the little crevices around. Still, Arya and Rickon were missing.  

From the corner of Sansa's eye, she spotted two figures silently pushing through the gathered crowd, quiet and quick as two shadows, until they reached the royal line. Thick ruddy hair was the first thing she saw, and then the long braid of Arya's hickory mop of hair entered the periphery of her sight too. Arya and Rickon. A breath of relief escaped Sansa, for the pair looked presentable enough, even if Arya wore breeches, the ones she had stitched up a sennight ago.  

"What have you two been up to? I half expected for you two barbarians to have mud dripping off of your boots and clothes torn and dirty. Mother looked like she had contracted rabies when she discovered you two missing." Sansa whispered harshly to her sister after she had taken her place next to her.  

Arya rolled her eyes. "Seven hells, stop being such a stick in the mud, Sansa. Mother's wrath would have haunted me to my grave if I allowed Rick to tear open his clothes. As you can see, not a hair on his little head looks dishevelled. I took great care of our little brother."  

Sansa looked on, sniffing her nose under her veneer of haughtiness. "I can't help my ambivalence. I'm not to be blamed for your poor reputation, so I assumed what I thought was plain. Where have you been lurking about?"  

Arya gave her a smug smile, grey meeting blue with great self-satisfaction. "Wintertown, if you must know. We've been watching our foreign cousin's procession from the smallfolk's side."   

Her breath hitched. "You've seen Emperor Jonothor? What does he look like?"  

With a scoff, Arya shrugged with disinterested. "Hell if I know. We didn't see a pompous arse that could match your snobbery, so I guess not."  

"But we did see dragons!" Rickon said rather loudly, bubbly excitement spilt all over his face.  

"Dragonguards, Rick." Arya corrected. "Those men clad in black furs and plates were no dragons, but soldiers of the Emperor." Rickon got a tuck on his ear, to which he protested.  

Their littlest brother ignored her and continued his babbling. "They were tall and armoured with dragon heads and mighty scary and they had these long black spears with shiny ends and red ribbons! Their helmets looked like winged dragons, they did!"  

"Shut up, will you? If you don't, Mother surely have our to-"   

"Brandon Stark!" Mother hissed, Father trying to keep her calm, but it was in vain. "Gods above, one more word, and I'll have you help organize Maester Luwin with the books in the library!"  

The next words died on their mother's lips as the riders galloped inside the courtyard, the silver merman banner of House Manderly waving in the wind. Another two dozen riders followed suit, these men carrying a sable banner with a thrice-headed red dragon, clad in the most foreign armour Sansa had ever seen. Sansa was not intimate with the knowledge of armourers, yet theirs seemed entirely otherworldly with their snarling dragonheads as shoulder pads and winged helmets. The riders were succeeded by a retinue of spearmen armoured in similar plates, thin furs around their collars, the ends of their gauntlets and peeking out of their greaves and breastplates. They were prepared for the North.   

More and more soldiers marched in wielding quite elongated spears, the ribbons Rickon spoke about earlier wavering like garlands of flames. Sansa counted twenty good men and ten strong riders in total. Not necessarily an army, but quite the entourage.   

Yet, there was no Targaryen emperor in sight.   

As the last one of the men strode inside and took their place along the road in a line, as if welcoming someone, Sansa's eyes were fixated at the gate.  

But nobody was coming.  

The entire court grew disquiet, some even murmuring what the meaning of this was.   

And then came the loud shriek.  

Sansa's eyes grew wide as the sound of the wind roared louder than before, clapping and clapping until Sansa caught the realization that it was not the wind, but a pair of wings. Another shriek, a more powerful one, and then, through the clouds, a black shadow broke through.   

People around her gasped and screamed as a great shadow descended upon them, breaking their formation until her father commanded them to stay put. "It will mean us no harm, I give you my word! Keep your calm and stay where you are!" How Father was so sure, Sansa knew not, but she placed her faith in Eddard Stark, the King in the North and Lord of Winterfell nonetheless. Father never went back on his word.   

Shaky legs and trembling hands, Sansa looked on as the creature known as the Emperor's Shadow flew over Winterfell, his wings clapping like thunder. It circled around, making sure everyone was aware of its mighty presence. Then, it came even lower, barely soaring passed the Broken Tower and then over the walls. Its size was so great, half of Winterfell fell underneath its shadow.   

Sansa could feel the ground tremor a bit and deduced that the creature must have landed on the ground at last. For a moment, it was silent, none who dared to move, and Sansa could feel her heart throb in her throat, beating hard and fast, painfully so. Then, the dragon took flight again and disappeared through the clouds, letting loose one final shriek as a farewell.  

The soldiers took a knee then, coming to bow in concert as a black figure started to appear. He ambled forward, at leisure and sure, his gait confident and regal. The moment he crossed the threshold of Winterfell's premise, Sansa felt her blood freeze in her veins and her heart seize its frantic beating.   

He could be only one man; Emperor Jonothor Targaryen.  

By the old gods and the new, he was impossibly comely.   

His attire was nought but black; his crown, his armour, his flapping fur cloak, even his sword was forged black.   

The finest set of ornamented armour was wrapped around his body, fashioned similarly as the men of his retinue, but far more elaborate, with numerous red gems making up a three-headed dragon on the breastplate. His crown was a dark circlet of gleaming glass, as black as the night, decorated with bloodred rubies. Her wondering eyes even caught sight of a grey ring around his annulary, shining not unlike silver or fresh steel.  

If Sansa had ever seen handsome men before, that very nuance was now shattered entirely. Snow had started to fall down the sky, some of them stuck between the dark tresses of his short braid, adding further to his ethereal beauty. Emperor Jonothor's face was sharp but not gaunt, as though chiselled by a master statuary. The skin of his flesh was pale as the ice covering Long Lake. His face was blessed with full lips and eyelashes thick enough that could make women see green with envy. Indeed he looked like every maiden's fantasy.  

Jonothor's form was sinewy and graceful, quick as a knife, full of a certain confidence that did not spell arrogance. Sansa knew arrogance. Harrold had been arrogant, and Ser Waymar too, that much was pretty much apparent when they swaggered all over Winterfell like peacocks. Emperor Jonothor was confident in a different way, in a frightening way. His amble was strong and sure that came along with the mantle of being a rightful sovereign. He was more like an eagle than a peacock.  

Sansa observed him keenly, and noted his open awe and, dare she say, melancholy? As he kept strolling, Jonothor took in his surroundings with deep reverence, face handsomely faraway and lined with woes that told a thousand broken promises; a haunted effigy looking for someone he could no longer find, chasing the remnants of a ghost of the past.  

By the Mother's mercy, gazing at him made her burn with heartache. There was such unveiled sorrow in his eyes. What could possibly cause a man such as him so much pain? He bent low and suddenly dug his fingers in the earth, pulling out a handful and bringing it to his face.   

The darkness of his eyes shimmered, looking at the mushy soil as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Did he look at his wives like that too?  

And then all of his vulnerability vanished, and in its place was the august might of a dragon.  

Jonothor wiped his hands and came towards them with sure and long strides, closing the gap between her family and him in mere seconds. Father knitted his eyebrows, his broader form standing a little straighter as his nephew approached. They stood face to face, a perfect likeness of each other's austerity.   

Even though Father was on his guard, Sansa sensed that something was amiss. As the most observant of the Stark children, Sansa had taken stock of every small quirk of her family. Bran would look at his feet if he told a lie, Rickon always puffed his cheeks and held his breath until he got his way, Arya always apologized if she genuinely hurt someone by offering them their favourite morsel and Robb rubbed his face if he did not know the answer to a question.   

Mother was impossible to figure out, her weaknesses only known to herself and the gods. Father, as much as he prided himself as unflinching, could be read like an open book sometimes. He was restraining himself from something. The tightness of his fists belied his composure, the knuckles so white, they threatened to break.   

Emperor Jonothor was the first to speak. "This is where it all started, right, Uncle Eddard?" His voice was low, strong and deep. She shivered at the tone. "Where the first spark of a flame came to life and fate tuned a different song than what all expected. Where a dragon prince and wolf maiden, against the whims and wishes of their duties, fell in love and defied its will. Mother always spoke of how beautiful she remembered Winterfell was, the inside and out. The snow, the soldier pines, the naked rills and the deep barrows, its people making an honest living around its lands. And her words were nothing if not true." Jon chuckled softly, looking down. The emotion was welling up inside her father, she could tell. "She promised me when I was but a boy. Promised me to take me here one day. Show me where she grew up playing with three caring brothers, where she learned horse-riding and archery." Jonothor brought his eyes back to her father, an unreadable expression. "Learned of honour and loyalty. I always knew one day our paths would cross, but I hoped I would not have been alone when I'd finally meet the uncle my mother spoke the highest of." Sharp as a whip, Jonothor's voice cracked. "I really ought to thank you, uncle. Without your inaction, I would have never found my true purpose."   

Father lunged forward, grasping his nephew by the shoulders, his chest rising and falling as if the wind got knocked out of him. There was some rattling as the Dragonguard came to their feet, spears poised, but Jonothor moved quickly, a raised hand stopping them. Her cousin remained stoic through his barely veiled surprise, then reluctantly wrapped his hand around Father's wrist.   

Coming back to his senses, Father distanced himself and held Jonothor at arm's length, one hand on his shoulder and the other placed on the side of his neck gently. "You're her spitting image." He choked out. "If Lya could have been here, I know she would have been proud of you."  

Her cousin's hand came to rest on Father's forearm, stoic-looking. "I hope so." He looked around, now taking note of the rest of his Stark relatives. "Acquaint me with your family, uncle."  

Jonothor first came to Mother, dipped his head courtly and kissed her hand with the same chivalry of an anointed knight. "Aunt Catelyn, a pleasure to meet you."  

Her mother answered with a small curtsy. "The pleasure is mine, Jonothor."  

He moved on to Robb, offering a hand. "Prince Robb, is it not? You look strong, cousin. Are you good with a sword?"  

Robb grasped his forearm, firm and strong, grinning, some sort of message no doubt, or a challenge. "Undefeated in the melee."  

Jonothor nodded, returning the smirk. "I'll look forward to discrowning you then."  

And finally, Sansa stood face to face with her cousin. Gods, it hurt to look at him even. She could never be his, she thought with a pang.   

Sansa braved herself and looked Jonothor square in the eye, chin up and chest puffed out, refusing to look anything but regal in front of arguably the most gorgeous man alive.   

A maelstrom of power resided in the dark, dark, irises of his eyes, pooling and swirling, eternally inundating like they were touched by the fingers of some abyssal deity. They could melt the Wall with their intensity. That, and any other maiden lucky to have those eyes fall on them.   

Gods above help her, for she felt her knees nod a bit as they kept looking at each other. Breathlessly, Sansa offered her hand, which her cousin grasped with the utmost care. His lips were cool and soft, a jolt of lightning careening through her that went all the way down to her toes when Emperor Jonothor pressed a kiss to her hand.   

"Princess Sansa. I see that the bards were right, after all."   

Playing with a piece of her green dress, Sansa bit her lip. "What were they right about, Your Magnificence?"  

His little smile caused butterflies to erupt inside her tummy. "The minstrels sang of a maiden kissed by fire and as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair. They told me she is the most beautiful woman in the North. I've seen my fair share of comely women, and you fit the songs like a glove."   

Sansa's heart stuttered, her mouth filled with sand as words got stuck on the slope of her dry tongue, cheeks hot with abashment.   

How cruel of the gods to fashion a man so perfect and have him then unavailable to me.  

Sansa was not bitter at all.  

Not in the slightest bit.  

"Seven hells..." Sansa heard from her side, Arya sneering just a little as she watched the two. Scandalized, she threw a heated glare to her sister, outraged by her crass and was about to give her a right proper dressing down, but Jonothor already moved on and regarded Arya. Strangely, he drank her in, a frown marring his face, indigo eyes sharp. He was remembering something.   

"You must be Princess Arya."  

Her sister squared her shoulders, a young she-wolf baring her fangs a little. "What if I am?"  

Jonothor's eyebrows rose, chuckling at her. "Have I stolen your sweet roll or something?"  

That threw her sister off. "N-no...?"  

"Then why act like I've spread breadcrumbs all over your bed?" For the first time in Sansa's life, she actually saw Arya colour a little in embarrassment. Their cousin proceeded. "Are you a good shot?"  

Arya was back to being her normal self, loud and full of confidence. "The best in the North; even Domeric can't best me in archery, and I bet you can't either."  

Jonothor nodded. "We'll see about that in due time." Bran's turn came, and as the politest of them all, Bran gave a small bow of his head out of respect.   

"Prince Brandon?" Bran nodded. "You look like the smartest of your siblings. Do you have any stories you can tell me about Winterfell?" Jonothor said, getting rid of his leather gloves to raise Bran's chin.   

Bran smiled toothily. "I do, Your Magnificence. One thousand and one stories that could keep you awake for a long time."  

Smiling, the Emperor gave him a nod. "I'll have you beholden to that."  

Last was Rickon, her youngest brother bouncing on his feet. Jonothor came to kneel before the young boy, shocking them all. "And last but not least, the youngest wolf, Prince Rickon."   

Nodding frantically, Rickon pounced on him, clutching his furs. "Can I ride your dragon, cousin? Please? Can I?"   

Jonothor laughed openly at Rickon, prying him off and ruffling his hair. "Mayhaps. I know not if your father and mother would allow it. But anything is possible."  

Standing up, Emperor Jonothor gestured for his men. "I've not come with empty hands." A baggage cart was pushed forward. "As a sign of goodwill, please accept this gift, Uncle Eddard. It contains goods that will surely help cultivate the North better."   

Mother stepped forward and approached the form of her cousin, followed closely by Father. "Let us continue our talks inside, Jonothor. The Great Hall awaits us at your pleasure." She said, and her cousin merely nodded and told them to lead the way inside.  

Father beckoned for Vayon to take care of the baggage cart before he, Mother and Emperor Jonothor made for the Great Keep. Stopping, Jonothor looked at her and smiled invitingly, offering an arm.   

Sansa was beyond delighted at the gallant gesture, weaving her arm around his and allowing herself to be escorted inside. The pain from earlier still throbbed inside her heart, but she had a moment to collect her thoughts and contemplate.   

At least her beautiful cousin was courteous and amiable. Yes, it pained her to know that he could never be hers, nor she his, but Sansa resolved to at least make a good friend out of him.   

The least she could do was cherish a fond friendship with Emperor Jonothor.   

Love had different ways which it could manifest.   

Sansa was determined to forever be carved in her cousin's heart, in any way possible. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've delved a bit into the North. Hurray...! No smut this time (sadly), but the build up to it is always fun to read, isn' it? Right? Please tell me it is...
> 
> Next chapter will be either of the two dragonladies and some additional politicking.


	6. Chapter 6

**WINTERFELL**

**JON**

 

Sitting on a wet log covered in the mildew of its own decaying wood, Jon gazed around the godswood and took in the soothing silence of the trees and the scent of the soil softened by the recent rains. It was a place full of peace, a sequestered realm, untouched by the outer world, quiet comfort on every branch, in every leaf and coming out of every stone, like the hand of a mother stroking her child's head, lulling them to rest.  

Jon closed his eyes, concentrating, his mind going elsewhere. A tuck on his conscious and Jon felt the familiar heat course through his veins. Lyaxes. She was resting somewhere, slumbering. His beloved mount had recently fed on some aurochs and now decided to take to the mountains due north. Opening his eyes again, Jon resumed what he was doing, content now that he knew where his dear mount was.    

The godswood was a balm to a mind so preoccupied like his own. Cleaning Blackfyre while listening to the silence did wonders to his mind. A hand wandered about, searching, wanting to interlace with a soft hand, but with a sharp pang, Jon was reminded that neither Dany nor Rhae were here, or his sons. Jon grimaced, missing his family, a dull ache beating inside his ribcage.  

It had been almost a moon's turn since Jon arrived at Winterfell and met the Starks. Since that time, he got to acquaint himself with the stones making up the ancient castle where his mother was born and raised alongside the rest of her old lineage.   

Mayhaps too many times had he already traipsed the grounds of this sacred place, a black ghost winging its way between the white barks of the red-leaved trees, thinking the gods would perhaps answer the hundreds of questions stored inside his heart. Every time he came back, Jon felt like it was the first time all over again. How it made him wonder. Every grey wall he looked at, Jon would see the vision of his mother's smile, a promise in its gleam.   

_One day, I will bring you to Winterfell. Bring you to the lands of the Winter Kings._

_Promise me?_ Jon had asked numerous times. She never denied him.   

Mother never would have denied him, until Lyanna Stark faced an opponent too wise to beat.  

Here, in Westeros, they called it the Stranger.   

Everywhere else, it was just called Death, anything but a stranger to Jon.  

She was dead before her time.  

That pain, he would forever hold within him.   

Yet when Jon had come here, he felt that a part of his grief finally had been put to rest, coming to terms with the death of his beloved mother. Her innocent promise to him had moulded into an obsession for Jon. Come what may, Jon vowed to himself that one day, his eyes would come and see the walls of Winterfell in honour of his mother's memory.   

And now, here he stood, treading the same grounds Lyanna treaded. If he allowed his mind to stray, he could hear her chiming laughter while bending down and picking up those blue flowers. Winter roses, he remembered.   

With a last sigh, Jon could feel his soul come to peace at last, like saying goodbye. No more did his mother's death haunt his every wake. Now, she was just a cherished memory, a piece in his life that he could look back to with fondness, knowing it helped create the man he was today, the woman who made him believe how to deal with people.   

Which brought him to the present.   

The people of the North were...of a different mould.   

For as long as he could remember, Jon was wont to honeyed tongues and liquid faces, people who turned allegiances like they turned cloaks. Petyr Wormtongue was one such man, a serpent who always gracefully managed to shed his skin and become another, a more desired form of himself, done so effortlessly, one would suspect him of being a faceless man.   

Varys Brightflame was another, just as silky and versed in the art of tending to the shadows and whispering in ears he had no business whispering in. Such was the nature of spiders; crawling into places they should not.  

Both the Spider and Wormtongue eventually rose to great heights; Baelish became High Councillor of the Iron Bank through his plots, and Brightflame nearly became the uncle to a Brightfyre emperor. Both now fed the worms with their rotting corpses.   

What are lies and deception compared to prophetic dreams?  

The Northerners, however, they were as honest as the pain of a wound, carving deep with their truthful words. They had no considerations for lies and feints. As frigid and honest as the winter winds cutting into your bones. Jon saw the appeal in that. Honesty above all else, whether conceding or dissenting, it mattered little to Jon.  

A man's worth is equal to a man's word.   

The Lord Wyman Manderly counselled him that during his stay in White Harbour. The fat man was amenable, if not a tad boisterous and gluttonous. He had smarts though inside that bloated, red-faced head of his. By his hand, Jon had learned some intriguing customs of the people of the First Men. Customs not so convoluted in comparison to the people of his empire.  

As for the Starks themselves.  

Well, they were certainly interesting, to say the least.  

Uncle Eddard, or Ned as he preferred, and Aunt Catelyn, who like her husband took a predilection to sobriquets and preferred to be called Cat, were rather opposing creatures. Eddard was gruff, personal and honest. Catelyn was soft-spoken, talkative and cunning.   

The Queen in the North especially looked like she had wits about her fit for a competent schemer. Certainly, there was more to them than met the eye, yet previous experience taught Jon a great deal that first glances were important. Wolves were cunning creatures, and the redhaired queen did not lack for it. Jon was wary of her.   

Their children, they were jigsaw puzzles, none of them fitting the personality of either parent, except for a certain young redhaired princess, whose resemblance to her queen mother in both look and behaviour was uncanny.  

Robb Stark was enjoyable and engaging company, quick to crack jokes with and share smiles. Though his redhaired cousin was of a similar age as Jon, Robb was thicker built and broad, but still had an innocence about him that betrayed his life lacking the conflict which coloured Jon's. Even so, Robb Stark looked like he could easily overcome his greenness. He looked much more promising than his father at least. It was not difficult seeing him as a brother-in-arms.  

The youngest, Rickon Stark, was a right proper knave. A mischievous little goblin he was with his pranks and wildness. Rickon's devilries were a delight to watch, but not so much being the butt of them. The boy was sharp enough not to target him in any of them, Jon noted. He had become the centre of his unbridled attention the moment he stepped on the grounds of Winterfell, but Jon knew why; he was not the slightest bit interested in him, but in Lyaxes, blue eyes wide whenever his great mount soared over the castle. Jon took no offence. A dragon is much more interesting than a dragonrider, surely.  

Arya...hurt to look at. A feisty and lively girl, that one, full of life and eager to prove herself, even to those she had no right to prove herself to. Just like Mother. True to her word, she was a better shot than he was, besting Jon three out of five times in an archery contest. Arya Stark had nocked and loosed arrows since she was of an age that allowed for that, she gloated enough times. Her hands were evidently calloused, so that claim might have some merit. She was also not shy from mudding her clothes and getting her fists scrapped as she cavorted with her younger brothers. Arya Stark was an unusual sister, but a sister he could have easily pictured having. The smug smile Arya Stark darted around with pained Jon so; his mind conjured an older, fuller and wiser woman before him, grey eyes and pearly teeth, before she turned to dust the moment he blinked. The memory would have once crippled Jon, but as the saying goes, time heals all wounds. Now, Mother's memory was sweet, if still a dull ache.    

The second son of the Starks was easiest to love. A sweet, dutiful and thoughtful boy, Bran was everything a man could wish for in a younger brother. Jon liked to believe this is what Aegon must have felt for him; the love for a boy who looked at you with eyes full of the admiration one gives the hero of his most favoured tale. Whenever Jon decided to grace the libraries and see for himself whether Mother's stories held true or not, he would find the young princeling seated in a chair, a stack of tomes at either side of his elbows and then lit up when he noticed Jon. A boy who lived on books and pages, the maester of this castle told him. Jon even jested with him if Bran was a wizard and in search of certain secrets stored in the grimoires of old. The old maester chuckled dustily and nodded in agreement.  

Once, Jon might have been close to them too, view them as beloved kin were it not for the fissure between his uncle and mother.   

The eldest daughter, Princess Sansa Stark, on the other hand, Jon felt a different stirring inside him altogether at the sight of her.  

Sansa Stark was a beautiful young woman, sharp and pretty-faced, rose-cheeked and innocuous. Her womanly figure and doe eyes the colour of the Narrow Sea spoke of less than innocent intentions. A curiosity bubbled inside those blue orbs of hers, a curiosity a woman bared only to a man she had desires for.  

Jon knew what desire was; he had seen it oft enough in men, and women even, aiming theirs towards his wives. Daenerys was a little minx and cruelly teased whoever eyed her with lust, dangling a forbidden fruit before their mouths and snatching it away the last second, while Rhaenys oft regarded lesser people like she would the insects skulking about the ground; with disdain and little care.  

Jon cared not if other women desired him. He was cognizant that he was pleasant on the eyes, but what worth did that have to women he had no interest in? Dany was sure to remind him of that each and every day in bed, and Rhae's agreement was no less convincing whenever she joined. Jon had no need to pay other women mind. Until he decided he had to, for the sake of his lineage. If duty compelled him so, then he might as well actively look.   

And his cousin certainly was a creature who made heads turn without their leave. Rhaenys and Daenerys were two exceptionally beautiful women, Jon knew, unmatched by anyone else. Nevertheless, Jon was an honest man and admitted that Sansa Stark had every right to call herself the most beautiful woman in her father's kingdom. She took after her mother, a beauty herself, if withered by time, motherhood and queenhood.  

Wherever Sansa walked, she walked with elegance, hips swaying like Dany would to entice dignitaries just a little to keep them tethered to her attention. Her steps were as silent as a ghost's, light and airless, as though she was floating.   

To Jon's hidden delight, Sansa's grace bloomed like a flower in the sun whenever he was around; puffing out her chest, sashaying slower and arching her just back a little more prominently, sharpening her womanly contours like a pretty knife fresh of the whetstone. Sansa's sapphire eyes always chased Jon's wherever he went, a silent meaning within them. The realization behind her intentions made him grin inwardly.  

At the beginning of his stay, Jon knew that she did not mean to look suggestive at all. Reticence held her back the first sennight, a dark cloud hanging above her head on a constant whim, plagued by her swirling thoughts it looked. Sansa graced him with lovely smiles, yes, but her smiles did not reach her eyes. Sadness tainted their beauty. Sadness, yearning and resignation.    

Jon had been thoroughly confused by the whole ordeal, grasping at straws. Not for long, though. The revelation of why his pretty cousin looked at him like he was her most desired dream forever out of her reach, came to him a few days later...    

* * *

_Already, a sennight and half had passed at his uncle's castle and Jon was reasonably enjoying himself; he went on hunts with Robb every two days, loosed arrows with Arya, was walked around the castle by Bran and Rickon. His cousins were keen on filling up his time entirely. All of them, except Sansa._

_A lovely young woman, beautiful, willowy and kind, yet Jon did not fully savour her attention, for they were laced with reticence. She tried, the gods know how hard she tried, with her little gestures like sewing him favours and cheering him on during melees. Jon was no fool, though, for every reciprocity looked forced. There was an inner conflict boiling within her, like she was a doll tugged on the arms by two little girls and threatening to burst at the seams._

_Jon had been watching Sansa all that time, taking note. Try as she might to appear unaffected by him, she failed at each and every turn. A blush, a stammer, a little hitch of her voice, tell-tale signs of a heart in conflict._

_Tonight was no different. From the corner of his eye, Jon kept stealing a few glances Sansa's way with subtlety and taking her in as she sat by her mother's side, prim, proper and demure. A perfect little princess._

_Jon was seated at his uncle's side, an honorary place. From his perch, Jon clearly saw how the Great Hall was filled with the denizens of the North, lords and ladies in rough furs and rasping leathers sharing bread and laughs with one another. As a servant came by to fill his plate, Jon raised a hand to tell he was full._

_The middle was cleared of tables and chairs, a few lordlings dancing with young maidens to a boisterous song about a bear and a maiden fair. Quite a ribald song, Jon mused, not at all what would have been sung in New Valyria._

_Robb held a young blushing maiden in his arms, twirling her around much to her joy while Arya and Rickon were around a table of Northmen, laughing and jeering for two men to drink their bellies full until either one collapsed. Jon had taken Sansa to the floor out of courtesy, the girl flushed with anguish and delight as the two swayed to the music while she tried not to show how much she was affected. Hard as it was for Sansa, a small bit of pleasure always crept up its way over her face whenever Jon regaled her with attention. The song had hit its crescendo, applause and drumming fists filling Jon's ears when they went back for their seats._

_"Your people are quite something else, uncle." Jon said, taking a swig of his ale after he gave a few claps of his own, catching his seat again. The Northern court was more different than he initially expected, he came to discover with each passing day. Everything here felt like he entered a different world, from the beds to the walls, from the drinks to the foods._

_The first time he tasted the bitterness of this beverage, his throat burnt with protest. Now, after a fortnight tasting the foods and ales of the North, Jon's stomach had grown accustomed to the rather ascetic foods. Filling and tasty, yet a rather paltry compared to the lavish feasts held in New Valyria. Jon absentmindedly mused whether this represented the North's economy or culture. He reckoned it was a bit of both; they neither had the coin nor the mind to spare overly indulgences. It was a respectable doctrine._

_Uncle Ned cleared his throat, sitting a bit straighter one his throne. Jon snorted under his breath. Since he came to Winterfell, his presence was a boulder on his uncle's shoulders, a painful pressure and reminder. Jon knew exactly what for._

_A part him admitted, it was ruthlessly manipulative of him to hang his mother's death above Uncle Ned's head like it was his sin to bear. Jon had need of a strong foot here in the North, however. Though they were bound by blood, Jon and the King in the North were strangers to each other. He held no particular ill will towards the man, but for Jon, every advantage in a foreign kingdom was a shield. Rhaenys had told him to be smart when he came to the North, and Jon intended to be._

_"Tell me, uncle, what do you think of the Myrish glass I've brought you?" Jon said, handing his empty tankard to a servant. He refused a refill. The mind games had begun, and he needed a clear head if he wished to play it well._

_"I'm grateful for the gesture, Jon." Ned replied gruffly. "The North has always been in need of more glass gardens. Growing crops here in the North does not come with ease, especially with winter coming to our lands sooner than the other kingdoms."_

_Nodding, Jon motioned for young Bran to hand him an apple from the bowl next to him. The Stark prince sat a bit farther away. He made a face, implying if he should throw it or not. Jon gave him a nod, and with a graceful arch, Bran threw the apple towards his waiting hand, catching it. Cat looked ready to admonish her son, but Jon placated her before he took a bite._

_His uncle shifted in his seat, turning to him. "Jon, I would like for you to tell me what happened in the east. How..." He swallowed thickly. "...Lyanna came to perish."_

_Jon did not expect that, stopping mid-chew and tightening his hold on the apple. His uncle noted his change of posture._

_Ned did have the right to know what precisely happened to his sister, so Jon took no prolonged time to debate about whether to share the tale or not. He would have given him that knowledge regardless, though the right moment never presented itself. Planting the seeds of manipulation never went as one expects, though, so Jon reconciled and sighed. His aunt's attention as well Sansa's was piqued too as Catelyn looked up from her sweet porridge while Sansa stopped stabbing her lemon cake, like a dove no more pecking at her food. Sansa really looked like a dove with her grey dress and white furs._

_Placing the apple on his plate, Jon took a moment to compose himself. "Well, it's not as romantic as the minstrels make it to be. War is hardly ever romantic, no matter how its tale is spun. The War of the False Dragon was just like any other... a foolish dispute, a political conflict about who would rule that stone and that tree and who got to decide if you live or die for a slight, imagined or elsewise." Looking down at the table, Jon began to trace the woodwork of the table with his finger, writing his tale on its skin. "My bloodline has a long history of conflict, against the world and each other. Targaryens are belligerent by nature; the dragon's way or none. It's not without reason why people always say that the sky is too small for two dragons. That is precisely what happened to the Holy Valyrian Empire; two dragons in the sky, battling for absolute power. A claimant had arisen from the shadows, raised and taught on the delusion that his bloodline was the superior one compared to mine and my brother's. His name was Daemon Brightfyre, a scion of my blood through a bastard line. His supporters, Varys Brightflame and Illyrio Blackfyre, wished to see their kin on the Obsidian Throne, and thus, decided to scheme their way to power. When the civil war began, their plot was twenty years in the making, shuffling pieces and pawns on a cyvasse board throughout that time for the right moment. Five out of nine cities had joined their cause, and the Empire bled for their ambition. Mother was among their victims..."_

_Jon found a small hole within the table and began to poke into it. "I destroyed them eventually, of course, burned them at the stake for their hubris and threw their ashes across the fire mountains of Old Valyria so their lineage could never again appear. But that was not enough to satisfy my wrath. I wanted more than justice. I wanted vengeance. And so, I purged the Empire from the traitors that dared to scurry behind the likes of a filthy would-be usurper." With force, Jon broke apart a section of the table wood when he yanked his finger back. "At the time, I knew not what I wanted to do with them, but one thing I knew for certain; I would have such revenge on them...all of them." His finger bled, Jon saw in surprise and then took the cloth from the table to stem the bleeding. "When I was done casting judgment on turncloaks, the Empire bowed before its rightful ruler like a slave fresh from a round of flogging, knowing the consequences of disobedience. My wives called my wrath the terrors of the world." Jon regarded his uncle, gazed at him stone-faced and unflinching. "Disloyalty should not be shown an ounce of leniency."_

_Uncle Ned looked pale, slapped speechless and Jon was half a mind to ask if a cat had gotten his tongue. His consort looked heavily disturbed. She would not dare to voice her personal qualms; Catelyn could not hope to cast judgment over his actions in a bad light. Disloyalty had to be answered brutally, and any monarch worth their salt had to know that._

_His cousins had various responses. Bran was awed, looking at him in a new light. Sansa looked much the same as her brother, minus the clear presence of admiration. Her pretty blue eyes were wide with fright and...something else. As he intently looked into her doe eyes, he saw something like approval and a strange hint of arousal._

_So the little dove liked to hear about the dominance of a dragon? My, that was a pleasant surprise. Jon meant to see where this was going._

_"I've grown tired, uncle. I mean to retreat for the night. Do I have your leave?" Jon said, eyes never leaving Sansa's. Her breath hitched. She understood the meaning._

_Ned did not expect his sudden will to leave, but nodded anyway. "Of course, Jon, are you in need of a servant to bring you to your quarters?"_

_Jon shook his head, declining his uncle's offer. He stood up from the hardness of his chair and left the table. The hall grew silent, eyes on the foreigner making his way out of the hall, looking on at length at the dragon leaving the wolf's den. These Northerners were equally gruff and suspicious._

_Bidding them all goodnight, Jon walked out of the Great Hall, stepping into the corridors with large drapes at the sides, the sigil of a snarling wolf sewn on it. He made for the nearest tapestry and hid behind it._

_Now, he had to wait for his prey._

_Look and behold, only half an hour later and a supple creature sauntered out._

_Sansa threw her eyes around, her beautiful bronze mane swaying, her mind in search of something. Of someone. Jon removed one of his gold rings and gently tossed it out, letting it clink against the stone floor. Her big blue eyes caught the movement, tracing it back to his coverage._

_"Oh! How silly of me, I've forgotten something in the Great Hall." Sansa exclaimed, putting a hand on her cheek in abashment. Batting her red eyelashes, she looked up at the guardsman. "Jory, be a dear and see to it if my shawl is there or not. I must've forgotten it."_

_What an act she was performing. His cousin could land herself a role as a mummer in a Braavosi theatre if she wanted._

_The burly young guard nodded stiffly and marched back towards the Great Hall. When he disappeared, Jon came out of his hiding place, tucked at her arm and gently brought her alongside him, silently walking towards one of the hanging tapestries._

_Once concealed, Jon engulfed his beautiful cousin in his arms, one set of fingers digging into the small of her back and the other gliding over her side, counting her ribs, drawing her soft and flushed body to his own. Sansa's hands landed on his chest, going up and down, not knowing where to settle and making him hum in satisfaction at her ministrations. She was not even conscious of her own actions. The smell of winter roses came to his nostrils, Jon taking a low sniff, loving how the smell numbed his mind. The intensity of their eyes collided violently when he pulled back, the air taut with pressure. Others take him, she felt good. Going longer for a fortnight without the feel of a woman had made him touch-starved. How much of a slave was he to this feeling? This infatuation for drowning in the pleasure of a woman's body? Not just any body either. Whores were not worth his time. Princesses, on the other hand..._

_"You've gotten yourself in the clutches of a dragon, sweet cousin." Jon whispered, swiping his thumb over the fullness of Sansa's red lips. Oh, the things they could be wrapped around..._

_She bit into her plump lip, shuddering in his arms, eyes clouded with desire and doubt. "I-I..." Her mouth clammed up when Jon brushed another finger over her lips, shushing her._

_"I'll ask the questions, and you'll answer me obediently. Can you do that, little dove?" At his question, Sansa bobbed her head, pliant as a serving girl, eyes wide as big blue crystal orbs. Jon felt himself swell at her obedience, slipping the pad of his finger further over her lips and drawing out a quiet moan from her mouth. An involuntary hum of his own sifted out. Sansa was so deliciously agreeable._

_"Now, tell me, what have I done to cause you such conflict, my little dove?" His breath fanned over her ear as he leaned in to whisper the words to Sansa. His cousin whimpered pitifully, squirming in her place, the gap between them growing smaller by the second as their bodies almost slanted against each other. Jon allowed his hand to go up and down, stroking her back in a teasing manner, his thigh between her legs, mere inches away from her mound. Gently, he pulled her closer, their noses inches away from touching as Jon peered into her eyes, almost losing himself in the vertigo that sizzled around. Jon was beyond the boundaries of propriety with his manners. Jon could not bring himself to care. "Answer my question, sweet cousin."_

_Again, she bit her lip, and Jon was starting to lose his patience, adding pressure on his hand and squeezing Sansa's scapula. She gasped, and that seemed to have helped her find her voice._

_"You've done nothing wrong at all, Your Magnificence!" Sansa squeaked, a bit tongue-tied and at a loss of words, her round breasts rising and falling with her difficult heaves. "T-the fault lies with me...I cannot bear to look at you and not have my heart bleed."_

_Jon felt his eyebrow rise slightly. She had such a flair for the dramatic, Jon snorted in amusement._

_Her answer did not satisfy him, but it did pique his interest. The tension abated in his hold, now coming to languidly rub the place where Jon's hand squeezed her soft skin, softening his hold on Sansa and drawing even more delicious whimpers. "Explain yourself, sweet creature."_

_Sansa's head shook around, still putting up resistance. For what, only the gods knew. Jon's patience was growing thin; this charade of Sansa's was getting on his nerves. It would not do. His arms around the eldest Stark princess coiled tighter, pulling Sansa even closer._

_Now, the ends of their noses touched, breathes mingling and eyes burning in a blue-purple inferno. "Listen carefully, Sansa." Was that another shudder that tore through her? Jon lightly shook his head. "Whatever ails your mind, speak plainly about it, and mayhaps, I can make it disappear." Softening a little, Jon's thumb started tracing the bows of her red lips and then came to caress her high cheekbones. "Come now, don't be shy..." Resting his forehead against hers, now fully drinking in her gorgeous eyes. He lowered his tone to a whisper again. "Tell me what it is that makes your heart bleed."_

_The blues of her eyes turned so dark, Jon momentarily wondered if they had turned black. Sansa murmured something under her breath, soft as a charm. Her chin was down and the dim of the lanterns allowed him to see how her cheeks pinked. Sansa refused eye contact._

_Jon tilted her chin up with a finger. "What was that...?"_

_"You..." She sighed. Now, she dared to look him in the eye. "You're my heart's desire, and it pains me so." Ashamed, she looked away, tears welling up at the sides. "I cannot ever hope to have that desire fulfilled." Her bottom lip quivered, a choking sound rasping out her. Jon frowned at her, confused._

_"And why is that...?"_

_Now it was Sansa's turn to frown in confusion. "You're already wed, Your Mag-"_

_Jon pulled her to himself again with a growl. Their chests were pressed against each other and Sansa gasped again. Jon loved the swell of her breasts pushing against his doublet. The tabor of her heartbeat pounded against his flesh, betraying Sansa's rising passion_

_"Your courtesies are getting tiring." Leaning against the wall, Jon resumed his caresses, a hand holding her hip and the other counting the ribs at her sides. Sansa moaned at the touch, a low and deprived sound, sweet like nectar freshly drawn from a honeycomb. Her arms had wiggled between them, braced against him to give her a little leverage, hands balled into fists, clutching the blacks of his clothes and weighing on his chest. "I prefer it if you say my name."_

_"J-Jonothor...?"_

_Jon growled. "No, sweet Sansa, I told you to say my name."_

_Her eyes darted to his pursed lips, fascination burning there, and that was when Jon knew he had her wrapped around his finger, a pretty little puppet dancing to the tune of his fiddle. Her voice was silk itself as she spoke softly, a mere breath escaping through those tantalizing lips. "J-Jon...?"_

_For quite some time now, Jon could not remember himself truly smile during his stay here in Winterfell. Now he did. He flashed a feral and ravenous smile as he gazed at Sansa with satisfaction. "Perfection." His nascent desire to trace her cheekbones threatened to overwhelm Jon. The tip of his finger followed the lines of her jaw instead. "I make your heart bleed?" Jon chuckled. "It seems you're a little unaware."_

_"About what, Your-" Jon frowned, and Sansa quickly corrected herself. "-Jon?"_

_"Of the reason why I'm here." Jon now looked his fill of her lips, approving them in his mind. She caught him staring. Let her, he smirked. "You're ought to be not so downhearted, cousin."_

_"Whatever do you mean...?" The sweet, passionate hope in her voice was so titillating. To string a woman to such heights of want was intoxicating. Rhae and Dany came to mind then, and what his passion did to them._

_"What I mean..." Jon squinted, leaning forward and bringing himself closer to his malleable cousin. Sansa's eyes widened, but she made no move to stop this. "...is that I can make your heart's desire come true if I so wish."_

_And then he captured her lips, softly, exploratorily, a caution in his movement, waiting if Sansa would refuse him. She did no such thing. Frozen in shock, Sansa did not know what to do it seemed, but she quickly recovered and moaned into the kiss, opening her lips when he gently nibbled on their volume, allowing Jon entrance. He invaded her mouth like an army sacking a city._

_The air between them vanished as Jon pulled her into his embrace tighter, discovering her mouth with his tongue, hands gripping her thin waist and locking her in place. Her hands had found purchase in his hair, long and thin fingers twirling and pulling at his braid, scratching his scalp. Sansa's inexperience showed through her lack of proper action, but Jon did not mind. Her enthusiasm more than made up for it. The taste of her tongue, tart and saccharine, like the lemon cakes she devoured earlier, was enough to quash any other thought._

_A mewl sounding like his name left her lips, and it was enough to make him harden a bit, his cock swelling to life. Jon was already imagining how those lips would feel coiled around his cock like a vice. Sinful, he was sure. Innocently sinful._

_But as much he was enjoying this, he had to rein it in, lest he did something foolish. Deflowering his maiden cousin behind a tapestry was not something he had planned to do. Not behind a tapestry and certainly not tonight, at least._

_They parted, breaths coming out harsh and hot, foreheads against each other. His cousin's lips protested at the loss of contact, leaning in to chase Jon's lips, but he evaded her advances. Pouting, Sansa had her eyelids still sealed, her breathing shallow. She regained her breathing and opened those big blue eyes of hers, a thick cloud of desire darkening them to a navy-blue colour as she stared right into his eyes. Then, regret came to push aside the lust she bared._

_"This is not proper..." Sansa lamented, torn between continuing and fleeing, burying her face in Jon's chest, whimpering. "...we should not do this. It is wrong. You are married already, promised to other women."_

_"Oh, sweet creature..." A hand roamed path over her contours, creating friction as it glided up the length of her flank. "...if it's so wrong, why does it feel so right then?"_

_Sansa stiffened, resting her cheek against Jon's breast, feeling the heat of it through the fabric of his black and red doublet. If he had her wrapped around his finger earlier, Jon was now more than certain he had spellbound Sansa to him._

_"Your Grace...!? Princess Sansa...! Are you still here...!?" The head guardsman, Jory, had returned, looking haggard and stricken with alarm at the absence of his charge._

_Sansa seized in panic, but Jon calmed her with a kiss on the lips. A susceptible girl to touch, the action made her shut up instantly. "No need for fear, little dove. Go, walk to your guard and allow him to escort you to your chambers."_

_"But what abo-" Jon stopped her babbles with a finger on the lips._

_"Patience. You'll get your answers soon. The only thing that I want you to do now is stop looking like you're about to weep any moment. You've robbed me of your beauty this past week. I'd like to see you smile more often." She blushed, looking away and nodding timidly, like a good, obedient girl._

_Satisfied, Jon ushered her off, a hand cupping her curvaceous backside, spinning her on her heels and gently pushing her out of their hiding place. Sansa yelped girlishly at the feel of his hand on her arse, looking equally scandalized and aroused. Jon smirked._

_The captain of the Stark household guards sagged his shoulders, relieved, proceeding to chide the princess for disappearing on him like that. Sansa responded with a mere apology, following the young man. When he was distracted, Sansa gave a look over her shoulder at the grey tapestry where Jon had ravished her with his lips. The last thing Jon witnessed was his cousin smiling at him, honouring a promise in those eyes._

_A promise Jon was eager to see fulfilled soon._

* * *

 

"Jon...?"   

Ah, speak of the Stranger and he shall appear. Or she...  

Sansa sauntered forward, making her way through the snow-covered ground of the godswood towards him with great care. A simper graced her rosy-cheeked face, hands demurely clasped before her, looking ever the proper princess. She came to take a seat next to him, close enough for their thighs to meet. Momentarily, Jon halted his business and took his cousin's hand to place a soft kiss on her knuckles. Sansa's face further reddened, blue eyes winking with sheer delight.   

Their bond had altered drastically, leaps and bounds from the lukewarm interaction the times prior. The day Jon had taken her lips between his own and drank her in until he got her cross-eyed, a bonfire lit up inside his cousin, consuming her. Whenever he got the chance, Jon pulled her into a secluded alcove, tasted her lips while caressing her soft flesh until she all but sagged into his arms, boneless and panting like a she-wolf in heat.   

The taste of her sweet tongue made his blood rage and howl, and her willingness did nothing to douse the heat in any way either. Neither Dany and Rhae were so submissive as Sansa, both ready to put a little fight and give him some entertainment to deal with, making him work in the throes of passion. Sansa was all longing and vulnerability, aphoristically stripped bare and prepared to surrender herself to his mercy with no shred of doubt. It stirred his base desires differently, but no less powerfully.  

"...Jon? Are you listening, dearest cousin?"   

He must have been nodding off, lost in thoughts as Sansa's fingers danced over his skin, playing the veins of his hand.  

"Forgive me, what did you say?"  

"Father wishes to say that he can receive you now. I've come here to inform you." She said, watching as Jon beckoned for a member of the Dragonguard relieve him of the cleaning cloth.  

"Good, I was already wondering if Uncle Ned had forgotten about me." Handing the cloth back to one of his protectors, Jon came to stand on his feet and sheathed Blackfyre in its scabbard. As they broke their fast, Jon told his uncle that he wished for an audience later today. Almost a month already passed and Jon was eager to continue his journey through Westeros.   

A few missives had reached him from Dragonstone penned by Dany, telling him that Rhae and the children left for Dorne for negotiation talks. His finger brushed over the familiar writing of his lovely wife when he read her letters. Gods he missed them.   

In her letter, Dany informed him of Rhae's decision to go south when Jon ventured to the North to meet his kin. Rhae voyaged to Sunspear with their sons, seeing if the Dornish were amenable for diplomatic talks as well. She had yet to hear from her. No matter. Rhae knew the Dornish and how to sort them out.   

Sansa also came to rise. "What is it you wish to discuss with my father, if I may?"   

Weaving their arms together, Jon walked out of the godswood with Sansa at his side, gesturing for the Dragonsguards stationed around to break vigil and follow him.   

"You are aware why I came here to the North, are you not?" Sansa nodded. "I've settled here in Winterfell for almost a moon's turn. I feel the time has come to finally set a period behind my visit and continue my campaign across Westeros. I still want your father's recognition as his suzerain, however."  

"You wish to leave so soon?" Sansa asked, sounding heartbroken.   

"My time here in Winterfell has come to an end, I'm afraid. Tomorrow, at first light, I intend to make for White Harbour and take a ship to Gulltown. The Vale of Arryn is my next destination."  

"...I see." Jon could not help the smile spreading over his face hearing his lovely cousin's dejected tone. Sansa frowned miserably at the ground, all the radiance from earlier melted away. He was soon to rectify that.  

They had left the godswood behind them, passing the guest house and entering the courtyard where a great deal of business was going on still. A few hours earlier, the crown prince had left with an entourage of fifty riders, hitting the road and heading east for the Dreadfort to visit his old friend Domeric Bolton, whose wedding to a lady called Alys Karstark was due in a few days.   

Brandon Stark had already settled in the bogs of the Neck a sennight prior. The Reeds of Greywater had requested for the brightest Stark to come and foster for a period with the king's old friend, Lord Howland Reed. That left only Sansa, Rickon and Arya in Winterfell. Not for long, however, for the second Stark princess also had plans.   

Catelyn was in the midst of talks, facing two men thick with muscles, bushy beards warming their faces and large furs warming their shoulders, wielding clubs and axes in their grips. They towered over the queen, but she looked anything but cowed. Jon complimented Catelyn for her steel-forged spine.   

They were from the mountain clansmen, Sansa whispered into his ear, noted by their sigils of a stone hand and a green thistle. Gruff men strong with the blood of the First Men.   

Jon tore his gaze away and looked upon the brown-haired shadow that was his cousin. Arya darted around the stables with a few ostlers, busy saddling her horse. The brunette gave a smirk and a wave when she spotted them from the stables.   

She was preparing for her departure to Bear Island. Uncle Ned told him that she had been in correspondence with the Mormonts for an extended time now, sharing letters with the she-bears of that remote island.   

It seemed young Arya was preparing herself for her own journey. Jon knew nothing about the Mormonts, only that the inheritance rights stood on even ground for both sons and daughters and that women from Bear Island were as strong and big as their sigil.   

Catelyn straightened as she dismissed the clansmen when they had thoroughly understood their instructions to accompany her daughter, looking at her eldest daughter and him with pursed lips and creased eyebrows when they neared. "I see you've found him, Sansa." Her narrowed Tully eyes eyed the intertwining of their arms briefly before they settled back on Jon. "Your uncle awaits you in his solar. Follow me, Jon."   

Jon took stock of her rather frigid tone, but said nothing of it. Clearly, she knew where this was heading towards and found no pleasure in the knowledge.  

Two Stark men-at-arms led the way into the Great Keep, and soon, Jon, Sansa and Catelyn came before the king's solar, one guardsman grabbing the handle and opening the door. They got inside, and Jon saw how his uncle already shuffled through some papers, his steward standing by his side, taking the signed pieces of paper from his hand.  

"Ah, Jon, please, take a seat, my apologies for taking so long." Ned gesticulated for them to further come inside. He nodded to Vayon, giving him an errand. The old man shuffled out with a stack clutched against his robes, closing the door after he excused himself.  

Catelyn came to stand by her husband's side, looking at Sansa pointedly, who disentangled herself from Jon and made for the door. Jon stopped her.  

"Stay, this will also concern you." All the occupants of the room were clearly taken by surprise. Jon paid it no heed and came to take his place before Ned's desk.  

"Some water? I reckon we'll stay here for quite some time." Ned said gruffly, pouring himself a cup already.   

"No, thank you. I'll cut right to the chase, uncle." Jon came to rest his elbows on the desk, hands weaved together. Oakwood, he noted absently. "It's been a moon's turn now, and we've been skirting around the subject long enough." Ned merely nodded, rubbing his face. Cat looked on with nary a thing betraying her thoughts. Jon pressed on. "While I've come here to lay to rest my final grievances for my mother, it's not why I've come here in the first place."   

"We know why you're here, Jon." Cat said cautiously, breaking in the upcoming subject as she came to stand beside her husband, pressing a palm against his shoulder.   

"And what is your answer then?" Jon wondered, coming to lean back into his chair.   

Ned frowned. "We...are not sure what to say, Jon. What you ask of me, I cannot merely give."   

Jon snorted in answer. "Nonsense, you can do as you like. Are you not King in the North, Uncle Ned?"  

"It's not as easy as you think." Grumbling, Ned caught his eyes head-on. "I have the opinion of my lords bannermen to consider. I have a duty to my people. What will they think of me if I bend the knee to a foreigner without reason? My bannermen will see me as weak and easily intimated."  

"Without reason...?" Jon crossed his arms over his chest. "Very well, I'll give you a reason. The reason is outside, sleeping inside a cavern, covered in black scales and capable of spewing flames so dark, they cast a shadow on darkness itself and burn as hot as five thousand suns."   

"Are you threatening me, Jon?" Ned accused, but Jon could tell that he was heavily bothered, shifting in his chair.   

Lyaxes had shown herself a scant few times, soaring above Winterfell before she dived into the Wolfswood for some prey. Jon had restrained the beast from using its flames during its hunts, yet that did not stem the constant complaints some Northmen gave during a petition.    

"Of course not, I'm only reminding you of a simple fact." Jon reached for the jug of water and poured himself a cup after all. "I've not come here as a conqueror; I've come here as one sovereign to another. I ask of you a small price for the sake of your prosperity. Recognize me as your liege lord and pay me yearly tribute, and you may keep your lands, titles and crown. You will keep the right to call yourself king and rule the North as you see fit. Except for some formalities, nothing changes to your political autonomy. I was even benevolent enough to gift you with enough Myrish glass worth five glass gardens. No conqueror bears gifts for those who he has conquered."  

"Gifts? You mean mere placates to make me go soft and accept the sword hanging above my head?"   

Jon exhaled tiredly. Stubborn people always grated on his nerves. "Uncle, your kingdom, vast and grand as it is, is a snowy desert compared to the other kingdoms. How large is the population of the North? A million? Not even? Pentos is only a city and it counts almost one and a half million citizens." Jon placed a hand on his chest. "I offer you a chance. An opportunity to make your kingdom flourish, for it to drag itself out of the muck and become the kingdom it can be. Accept me as your lord paramount, and not only will I abstain from forcing you on your knees with fire and blood, my hand will help you in making your kingdom more sustainable. That is what you need the most. Sustain. The North is grand, but what good is owning the largest farm if it is, for all intent and purposes, as barren as a wasteland?" Uncle Ned turned pensive, looking to the side. Jon ground his teeth. "Keep in mind, the fact that I'm negotiating with you speaks of the generosity I offer. If I wanted an easier solution, I would have done so sooner, and trust me, by now, Dany and Rhae would have already told me to pursue the dragon's way."   

Closing his eyes, Uncle Ned sighed cumbersomely, like the world was weighing down on his shoulders. He took a moment to think and Jon waited patiently for his answer. This was not an easy to decision to make after all. His eyelids opened and he looked like he came to a decision.   

"Very well."   

Catelyn whipped her head to her husband, baffled. "Ned, I don't belie-"   

"I've made my decision." Ned interrupted his wife, sighing deeply, his broad shoulders slacking. "He makes a compelling argument...Winter is coming, and with it, the North could use every bit of assistance. The Myrish glass will help elevate the burden on our shoulders in terms of acquiring produce. For his help, Jon will receive my loyalty and I will recognize him as my lord paramount and suzerain."  

Pleased, Jon nodded. "A wise choice, uncle. You will not regret your decision. My great-granduncle Aemon once told me that those who fight are brave, but it takes even more courage to bend the knee in the face of an opponent you cannot hope to defeat. Now, there is only one thing that remains..."  

"Surely, you've gotten what you wished for...?" Ned tensed again.   

"Not precisely...to seal our agreement, I need a token of homage...a tribute, to show your deference."  

"And what does this tribute mean?"   

This was why Jon truly wished for Sansa to be present. "Tribute may be given in various ways. Gold, goods, artefacts...daughters."  

"Absolutely not!" Cat shrieked, outraged. "You dare insinuate that we should offer you our daughter? Like she is some cattle to be gifted away? As if our sovereignty is not enough?"  

Jon raised his chin. "I did no such thing, it's you who jumped to conclusions."   

"Do you deny it?" Ned asked, his brogue low and indignant.   

His maternal family consisted of such prickly people, Jon mused with annoyance. Were it not for their kinship, Jon would have beleaguered the castle without scruples, thrown the Starks into chains, taken Sansa for himself and named another noble house as rulers of the North. But he had to respect his Stark blood. Mother would not take kindly to it if her brother and his family, prudish as they were, were treated as such for their narrow-minded foolishness.  

"I will not deny it, I desire Sansa." The girl in question had taken a seat behind them on a divan, looking on demurely. Sansa gasped at the confession. "Tell me, Aunt Cat. Who do you have in mind to marry your daughter off to? Some halfwit lordling of the North? Or a southern flowery princeling?"   

The question caught Catelyn off guard. "A worthy suitor, at least..."  

"And you think of me as unworthy?" Jon looked amazed at the audacity of her implications. Catelyn hesitated to give a response. "In front of you sits the most powerful man alive; the Holy Valyrian Emperor. I rule over nine powerful cities, possess riches beyond measure, command a total of 300.000 soldiers, and on top of all that..." Leaning in, Jon's eyes pinned his aunt-by-marriage to her place. "...I ride a dragon. My wives ride dragons. The world lies at my fingertips. You should be honoured that I offer to take your daughter as my consort. Nobody who could take better care of her than I. None of your kings and princes will hold a candle to me."  

"You are married already, for the Maiden's sake! What do you expect us to think?"   

"Yes, I have wed already. What of it? I've come to Westeros for a reason. My wives have difficulties getting with child it seems, and thus, they have spurred me to seek other wives. The need for more heirs has pushed me to take these drastic measures. Sansa is a lovely girl, healthy and of age. And most of all, she is unwed. What more do you wish in a consort?"   

Both Ned and Cat could not bear to look him the eye, facing away, heavily contemplating. Gods, this was maddening! What was there to deliberate about!?   

"Sansa, what say you?" Her father eventually said. Oh, this could very well work in his favour.   

The girl in question demurred, looking at her lap as she sat in the far corner. "I wish nothing more than to please my lord father and lady mother." How banal, Jon scoffed. The perfect eldest daughter aiming to please her parents. "But...I also wish to be Jon's consort..." Ah, perhaps there was more spirit to Sansa than he gave her due.   

"Sansa...do you understand your position?" Catelyn said, sitting next to her daughter. "He will not marry you. Your place will not be secure, for you will ever only be a mistress to him in truth." Was that what bothered them?   

"If it means so much to you both, I will wed Sansa before the heart tree to appease your fragile egos." Jon shook his head.   

"Do you mean to honour that promise?" Ned looked him square in the eyes, stern and intimidating. It did nothing to him.   

In truth, Jon could care less about the faith of the olds gods and their vows, having been raised by Valyrian customs. The ancient Valyrians cared little for religion in turn, viewing it as something primitive, yet some pageantry existed for affairs such as marriage.   

But if it meant putting an end to this tedious discussion and have Sansa for himself, he would do it. The ceremony, if anything else, would only help strengthen their resolve to let go of Sansa.  

"Organize the ceremony tomorrow, and I will say the words, honour the vows and wed Sansa."  

Ned nodded and regarded his daughter. "Do you consent with this, my love?"  

The smile she gave could have but a bonfire to shame. "Yes Father, it would please me so if Jon takes me as his wife."  

Wife was a strong word...but Jon did not have the heart yet to deny her, lest he breaks this fragile agreement. Jon returned the smile his red-haired cousin gave and rose to his feet.   

"With that settled, I have nothing else to share. See to the ceremony tomorrow, uncle. You have a daughter to marry off." Catelyn had come to her husband's side again, whispering in his ear softly. He passed his cousin and caressed her cheek with two fingers. "I will be seeing little Rickon. The boy's been lonely and could use some company. Seek me out if you feel the same."  

She nodded eagerly and Jon left the three Starks to their devices.   

With that finally out of the way, Jon could start preparing himself for his journey back to Dragonstone. There was still some open affairs he had to conclude, but by tomorrow, Jon wished to be on the road and heading south again. It had been too long since he had heard Dany's sweet lilt.   

If he was to marry Sansa tomorrow, he had to prepare a wheelhouse for the young princess where she could travel alongside him.  

And where he could spend the journey getting to know the first of his Westerosi brides. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut either...how cruel. But we're almost hitting the climax! I know I said I would write either Dany or Rhae's POV, but then I figured I needed to cut things a little around the edges in order to not let it bloat it. Dany will be 100% next chapter, and then...well...I can't keep the blueballs tactic for too long, now can I?
> 
> I don't know if I've said this before, but I really appreciate the praise all of you have given me. I want to give you, the people, the best of my abilities, and thus, that sometimes may translate in slower updates. I try to stick to weekly deliveries, but as plot thickens, so too is my dedication to giving a comprehensible chapter. I thought I could delude myself in writing pure smut, but guess the joke's on me! Maybe better performed in oneshot formations...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, after quite some time. My sincerest apologies for the lack of updates. I was ill for a period, then that illness turned into sloth, and honestly, I have little excuse. I did write a 20k oneshot, but that was honestly already a WIP, but I simply didn't know what to do with it. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm back and ready to try and post in a more committed fashion again.

**DRAGONSTONE**  

 **DAENERYS**  

The tumbling weight of her eyelids was starting to become a tedious bother, Daenerys concluded, furiously rubbing the lethargy out of her sockets with a hand. She had trouble keeping them open for more than three seconds, and each time she tried pushing herself for more, her eyes would dry and sting. 

"J-Jon...be a dear and bring in a lantern. The candles are not bathing the room in enough light." Daenerys called out, resuming her writing. A pregnant silence followed. When she received no answer, Daenerys felt her eyebrows knit together. "Jon...?"  

The realization came to her suddenly, like a slap to her face. _Of course, he is not here at present...neither is Rhae or my little hatchlings._   

Her chest flooded with coldness, a chill hollow thrumming inside her at the absence of her most beloved people. Slumping her shoulders, Daenerys took in the ornamental carvings of her desk, dejection forcing her to take in a sharp breath of air.  

Pulling her cloak tighter to her tired body, Daenerys pushed herself from the chair and stepped into the hall leading up to the lord's solar. She grabbed a lantern from the wall and duck back into the room, placing the oil lamp next to her cup of Lysene sweet wine, again taking a seat before her scattered papers, pleased to find her documents more readable now.  

The hour of the bat had drawn close, but Daenerys refused to slide into her featherbed and allow herself to rest. The documents before her still needed her eyes before she could close them for the night. This was her legislation, after all, one she had started to spearhead with much determination.  

It had been a moon and a half since her family had scattered. A moon and a half since Jon had taken Lyaxes and a contingent of the Dragonguard with him to the North. From there, she received the letters of her husband regarding his save arrival in Winterfell and the little signs of progress he was making.  

At the same time, Rhae and the children had taken a ship to sail for Sunspear to meet Prince Doran. Daenerys was adamant for her niece to take the children, arguing that she had missed their company for too long and that it was her and Jon's turn now to suffer the torture.  

Now, here they were, separated and doing all they could to rein in the Andal kingdoms. It was hard work, and lonely too, she mused with a dejected frown, caressing the wooden skin of her table, her fingers going along the line of the snarling dragons carved into it. With a start, Daenerys felt the absence of her loved ones poignantly, a bleeding wound that healed stubbornly.  

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing._  

A hand went to her stomach, caressing it tenderly. It had been a while since she had her moon blood. She was a fortnight late. Daenerys hoped that the tingles within her were a sign of the gods; she recognized this feeling, after all. It resulted in nine parts mess and one part magic. Never one for religion, this time, Daenerys prayed to the gods repeatedly for the signs not to be a hoax.  

Daenerys closed her eyes before she opened them again, willing her thoughts to pour over different subjects than her melancholy. She steeled her spine into a straight line and glanced back at the papers in front of her.  

As expected, the kings of Westeros did not take kindly on the announcement that Jon proclaimed himself lord suzerain over the Sunset Kingdoms. All of them did not even bother answering; the King in the North and the Prince of Dorne, who respectively invited their kin for cordial talks, had the grace to invite them and seek peace instead of war, but no such courtesy was extended by the Andals.  

 _Wilful fools. We stretch out a hand, and they spit in our faces?_  

No matter. It was to be expected, a small part of her conceded. They would soon be made to realize their folly. Nobody could dare insult the dragon and walk away unscathed.  

Though, right now, Daenerys had no time to spare and answer the insolence of their quietude. She was preoccupied with the final touches of her legislation. 

When Jon had married her and Rhae, his hands placed a crown on their heads, whispering to them the importance of balance. In a lavish ceremony in front of a crowd of a million people, she and Rhae were proclaimed as Holy Valyrian Empresses, not standing behind Jon, but  _right beside him_ in terms of stature and precedence, naming them regnant monarchs as well.Emperor Jonothor and his wives, Empress Rhaenys and Empress Daenerys; the Valyrian Triumvirate, they were called.  

 _A new era has dawned upon the Holy Valyrian Empire, with the three-headed dragon come again leading the van! We will bring about a Golden Age even greater than that of Old Emperor Jaehaerys I! On our honour as your solemn rulers, we will do our duty, to you, the people! Gone are the woeful days of toiling underneath the tyranny of war! For as long as there is breath in our lungs and blood in your veins, the Empire will only know peace and prosperity!_  

Jon's words during the coronation brought about a wave of jubilant applause, the endorsement of their people shining back in riposte. Her beloved crowned her and Rhae his equals, elevating them to a position unprecedented for Targaryen women; Aegon II would roll in his grave at the slight. Rhaenyra and Alysanne would smile down upon such a moment, victory tugging at their lips.  

Though recognized as sovereign, it did not mean only a great amount of prestige; with her crown came the power and duty to initiate legislation. Jon had given her the power to rule. To bring her ideas to life. To make a change.  

Daenerys had not remained idle from that very moment. 

Rhae had already implemented her great law of reformation aimed at the infrastructure of their empire. Jon had pushed forward military reforms that revived the imperial legions from stagnation, turning them into a well-grounded military force. It was a race of sorts between her and her niece and nephew; who would be the greater administrator between them? Competition always accomplished to incite the best efforts of her. 

Daenerys' quest regarded the abolishment of slavery practice. For decades, she had watched from luxury how those born in bondage toiled underneath the whip. Beaten into shape like iron, for whatever purpose their masters deemed fit. It disheartened her so, yet, she could only do so much as help distribute sustenance and clothes to the slaves. Her inability to do more had caused her to skip a few nights of rest in the past.  

Daenerys knew she could never hope to ever understand them, for she and they lived in two different worlds. That did not mean she harboured no sympathies for slaves. Years she had studied underneath Uncle Aemon's watchful eye, going through historic customs, economics, politics, and geography. Now, the pinnacle of her knowledge had borne fruit, at last. And now, as a true empress, Daenerys could finally realize their dreams. 

She could not possibly consider outright abolishing slavery without proper consideration. Slavery had been so long a part of Valyrian customs, it would mean a crisis of identity and purpose if suddenly an integral and defining customary trait such as slavery would be abolished overnight.  

No, Daenerys knew that this particular behemoth needed a great deal of thought if she wished to do right by it. In the beginning, when her passions ran high and reason had not yet made her fully see the magnitude of this endeavour, she liked to delude herself in thinking that, indeed, Daenerys had the authority to issue such a decree. Naturally, she all but had that authority. However, that very authority would have proven to be detrimental to her if she callously used it. Delicate matters needed delicate handling, and the doctrine of slavery was as fragile as it was controversial.  

She had planned it all out meticulously; from her own hands, Daenerys had drafted a strategy involving a few decades, all of the sequences of the one before. 

First, slaves were to be given more rights in an orderly and gradual fashion, giving them basic dignities over the years until the bondage of slavery no longer hangs around their throats so glaringly.  

Second, Daenerys would offer them fair labour and honest coin for the works they would be performing, elevating their social status. Already, she had a grand project in mind for just that. 

Third, the extension of Valyrian citizenship would be given to them after long and honourable service, fully recognizing them as members of the Empire, and not mere tools. Once sufficiently given status, all of it had to reach the pinnacle of abolishing slavery itself.  

With pride, Daenerys looked on at her roadmap that had taken her moons to finish. Her greatest source of pride was her suggestion to Jon to build a new city to create both labour for the slaves as well as a settlement for them to eventually take residence in. While Jon quickly endorsed the idea as he too was heavily opposed to slavery, a legacy of beloved Lyanna, he and Rhae questioned her where to build this new city of hers. She felt her pride a little douse at the poised question. Jon and Rhae indeed indicated an important point. 

Hence why the maps of Essos laid spread all over the desk alongside the numerous imperial decrees. For hours now, Daenerys was looking on at the map until she grew sick of the alps, highlands, dales, and rivers. The west of Essos was a great plot of land, but pinpointing a place and build a proper city there seemed to be harder than she initially considered. 

The sound of knuckles rapping against the bark of her door caused Daenerys to regard it sharply, sitting straighter in her chair.  

"Who is it?" 

The voice was elderly and muffled. "It's only me, Your Magnificence."  

Maester Gyldayn's voice resounded behind the door. Daenerys eased herself, lessening her composure while she brushed her temple.  

She let a beleaguered sigh leave her lips. "See yourself inside, Maester Gyldayn."  

The man in question stepped forth through the door after he pushed it open, his elderly face wrinkled in a kind smile as he cradled a few scrolls. "Your Magnificence, Lord Velaryon is here asking for a private audience." 

Daenerys perked up, her interest piqued. Monford Velaryon may be of use right now, Daenerys considered. The Lord of Driftmark had always been a sharp man, keen with his insight regarding topography, and Daenerys was not above asking the opinion of others in matters she was less skilled in. Administration and stewardship, she was more than able to take care of, but understanding the art of cartography, topography, and geography, she was less than talented in. Those were Jon's forte.  

"Send the Lord Velaryon in, and bring some additional sustenance for His Lordship." 

"That will not be necessary, my empress. Appetites leave me when the food hasn't been supervised by my dear wife." Monford jested light-heartedly as he passed Gyldayn, entering the solar and politely smiling at her. The kind maester swept in a bow and left the room after he placed the scrolls on her table.  

Lord Monford was of an age similar to her beloved brother Rhaegar, handsome as all scions of Old Valyria were and built like a lance, tall and graceful even for his current age. His smiles left Daenerys always a little out of breath when she was a little girl, for she had seen Lord Monford as a very comely man fit for high praise. Aurane Waters, his younger, natural brother and one of Jon's formidable admirals, had caused more than one sharp pang to hit her chest.  

The Lord Velaryon reminded her of Rhaegar so much, it caused her veins to freeze over like a stream on a chilling midwinter night, cold water burnishing over her until Daenerys thought her heart was a chunk of ice.  

 _What would you think of us, dearest Rhaegar? Would you be proud of us? Of Jon? Of Rhae and I? If you could see us now, would you caress our face and smile down at us, or criticize our actions?_  

Daenerys was jolted out of her thoughts when Lord Monford gently pressed a hand on her shoulder, staring at her with a question in his eyes, taking regard in her sudden lapse of silence. Daenerys unfolded one of the scrolls Maester Gyldayn gave her, and what she read made her grimace. Daenerys felt herself sigh in exasperation at yet  _another_  complaint from one of the farmers about Rhaegal.  

This would be the umpteenth sheep he stole. Daenerys had sincerely lost count by this point; her dragon was a sheep stealer no matter how many times she had chastised Rhaegal for it. A more wilful creature she had not seen in her life.   

"Surely a cup of Lysene sweet wine you will not decline, will you, my lord? It is of the finest vintage." She said, all thoughts over Rhaegal and his shenanigans shoved aside, decorum now taking over, willing her to insist on providing her guest with something to occupy his hands. As she said that, Daenerys was already filling in a gilded cup while Lord Monford was shaking his head. 

"Your Magnificence, I would never presume and drink stock of your fine wi-" 

"Drink, my lord, your empress commands it." She ordered him gently, presenting him a cup full.  

Chuckling, Monford graciously took it, surrendering to her will. He looked over the rim as he sipped from his drink.  

"You are much less domineering compared to your husband and brother, Your Magnificence, but still quite assertive."  

Daenerys was in agreement with that, nodding curtly to show her grace at his kind words. "You have spent much time then with His Magnificence, my husband, and my dear late brother. I'm neither him nor my brother, my lord, as you can see, but I am not above imposing my will."  

Flipping over a page, she grabbed her quill, the purple feather a gift of Rhaegar for her eight-and-tenth nameday.  

"No, you are indeed not, but that doesn't make you any less compared to Emperor Jonothor." Taking another sip, he added. "His Magnificence is a singular man, very determined to honour the memory of his dear father and brother, but at heart, he's still a martial man, the sword always kept close to his heart." Monford's eyes fell on her table. "You and Her Magnificence Rhaenys, on the other hand, have been groomed for stewardship, or so I've been told by Rhaegar." Lord Monford waved a hand over her desk, gesturing at the maps lying sprawled all over as he neared her desk. "These documents are evidence enough. What do we have here, my empress?"   

Scooting her seat closer, Daenerys poured over her work again, hands tied together in front of her as her chin came resting on top of them. "You're a man with a good pair of eyes, are you not, my lord?"  

Looking over the rim of his goblet again, Lord Velaryon appraised her. He took a sip before speaking. "For a man at the age of forty-and-nine, I can still see sharply, yes." 

"Tell me then, if given these maps, which place would you consider appropriate for a city, Lord Monford?" 

"I do not understand the relevance..." Lord Monford said. "If I may, Your Magnificence, please tell me for whatever reason you are asking this?" 

Daenerys dipped her head, a frown marring her face. "Very well, Lord Monford. It is of value to me that you provide an answer, for I am in need of a location suitable for eventual lodging." 

"Lodging...?" 

Daenerys huffed, exasperated at the numbness spreading through her fingers. Hours writing had not been kind to her hands. "For my initial legislative proposal. I will advocate for the abolishment of slavery as my first act as Holy Valyrian Empress." 

This caught Monford off guard as he placed his cup upon the table next to her window. "My empress, you wish to liberate the bondmen?" 

Daenerys regarded him neutrally. "Yes, I do." She remembered a small fact then. "Your most lucrative business involves slavery, does it not, Lord Monford?"  

Lord Monford demurred, a hand coming up to wipe off his jaw. Despite what he may think right now, Daenerys did not hold it against him, even if she sat there pinning the Lord of Driftmark to his spot with her violet eyes. While her dislike for slavery was an open secret, she understood that business was business.  

After 300 years of constant slave labour, one would undoubtedly grow desensitized to the woes and pains of 'mere' bondmen. Daenerys was sure to make great changes to that.  

Lord Monford had eventually gathered the courage to look at her, face resolute and severe. No doubt, he was putting up a brave face in her presence to preserve his dignity.  

"I hold no ill will towards those I sell in chains, Your Magnificence. Slaves are a commodity in the Empire and high demand. My eyes merely see a chance to broaden my horizons, or elsewise, my trading company would suffer falling out of the competition. House Velaryon's greatest source of income is trading, it always has been, and while we broker and trade in slaves, we've never actively participated in the act of enslaving and bringing them to stock." 

"I understand that my lord," Daenerys assured him, nodding. Another thought struck her. "but if you were part of the Elder Council, would you endorse this law?" She said, speaking and writing down notes of import at the same time.  

"No, Your Magnificence, I would not." 

Daenerys had not expected a different answer. His reasons were pretty clear.  

"I thought as much." Daenerys nodded again. "Have no fears, my lord, I haven't taken slight by your verdict. Quite the contrary, it refreshes me to see honesty from someone else other than my sister-wife and husband."  

Monford nodded. "I'm relieved by your objectivity." 

Placing her quill back, Daenerys beckoned for the Lord Velaryon to come hither. "It is therefore why I wish to have your truthful opinion about the following." Daenerys gestured for the map displaying their imperial holdings. "Would the abolishment of slavery be met with much resistance?"  

Daenerys was already aware of the answer. The amount of stubborn protest would flood over her like a deluge, she was sure.  

All members of the Elder Council enjoyed the convenience of keeping slaves around to tend to their mundane needs. Daenerys was not above admitting that the imperial family enjoys their services as well, though, Daenerys had made sure they were treated with dignity, going even as far as giving them compensation for their work. Shame was not what propelled Daenerys to come up with plans to eventually do away with slavery, however. 

What truly made her begin to see the danger of the practice of slavery were the tumults of the east. With growing disquiet, Daenerys saw the aftermath of the Slave Revolt in Slaver's Bay, when millions revolted against the old slave masters of the Three Ghiscari Daughters in a violent uprising that coloured the streets red with blood.  

Cleon the Butcher did his name justice when he rallied the slaves of Astapor and unleashed their festering hatred for their masters upon the Astapori citizens. His revolution had sparked other assemblies of prominent slaves to raise their arms in revolt as well.  

Meereen had been sacked a hundred times, first by slaves, and then by the masters trying to retake control. Yunkai was ablaze for a fortnight, the Yellow City burning like melting gold in the sun. Astapor's Unsullied fought off both the slave hordes within the city and the depredating Dothraki hordes outside, the horselords all too eager to take advantage of the ensuing chaos.  

The blood and death that plagued Slaver's Bay rivaled that of the Century of Blood. 

And Slaver's Bay was not as populous compared to the Empire.  

Volantis alone counted five slaves for each freedman. 

Let alone the entirety of the Empire.  

Daenerys waited patiently for Lord Monford to answer, but this time, His Lordship did not take long to give voice to his ponderings.  

"The Elder Council would never allow this legislature to pass the floor..." Lord Monford said. Daenerys opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the Lord of Driftmark continued. "...if we were under conservative circumstances, that is." 

Raising her chin, Daenerys beckoned for Monford to proceed, gesticulating for the chair opposite of her.  

He took his place on the cushioned seat. "His Magnificence has a major advantage over the Elder Council." 

"Dragons." Daenerys smiled delicately.  

"Yes, dragons. Powerful creatures capable of burning all those who oppose them." Lord Monford affirmed grimly.  

Daenerys folded her hands in her lap. "But even without dragons, the sovereign still has legal rights to circumvent the Elder Council, as was concluded in the Writ of Concordance. So not even militarily, but also legally, Jonothor, Rhaenys and I have the prerogative to make decisions if we don't agree with the Elder Council's position."  

"Politics are more intricate than that, Your Magnificence." He countered.  

"I'm well aware, Lord Monford. I've grown up in the imperial court, after all, and House Targaryen has fairly recently, ten years from the top of my head, reacquired dragons. I've seen how politicians achieve their goals." Wormtongue Baelish came to mind. He and his poisonous gift for words caused more deaths than Emperor Daeron I's campaign against the Summer Islanders. Daenerys had been gladdened when his death reached her ears.  

"My apologies, but may I speak plainly?" Lord Monford said gruffly. His tongue was laced with impatience. Apparently, he was growing bored.  

Daenerys gave her acceptance, which prompted Monford to lean in. "Pardon my bluntness, but what is the point of our discussion...Your Magnificence?" He quickly added.   

Indeed, they had strayed from the original subject at hand, Daenerys realized. Yet, it gave her an opening to broach another one, which incidentally did have a nexus to the original topic.  

"The point is the following," Daenerys pushed the map depicting the Nine Free Cities, tapping the northernmost mass of land and the archipelago of Braavos. "Jon has become increasingly cautious in regards to his vassals, questioning their loyalty at every turn. The Elder Council, while loyal to us, is still made up of our vassals. One day, they may find it more convenient to rebel against us, if given the chance. Ferrego Antaryon was once our vassal, and look which side he chose in the end." 

"Empress, I can assure you, House Ve-" 

She raised a hand, cutting him off. "Oh, I don't question your loyalty, Lord Velaryon, you've proven that during the civil war. House Velaryon stood by mine in our direst need, and for that, you have our eternal gratitude." Monford loosened his posture, relieved. "When the would-be usurper Daemon was defeated, Braavos was stripped of its leadership and put to the sword. That included Sealord Ferrego Antaryon. For the time being. Braavos has been ruled by an interim council, personally appointed by me and my sister-wife Rhaenys." 

Lord Monford scrunched his eyebrows. "A wise decision." 

"But just as the name implies, an interim council is only of temporary value. I've come to an absolute decision." 

Daenerys opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out yet another document. She handed it over to Lord Velaryon, who read it over with concentration. Each word he read caused his eyebrows to rise higher and higher, until they amusingly disappeared into the lines of his hair. His violet eyes darted across the text with frantic speed.  

"T-this is...I don't kn-..." He faltered, tripping over his words. Monford gave her a look. "Your Magnificence, is this decree authentic...?"  

Daenerys gave one of her proud smiles, knowing that she had Monford's unbridled attention now. "No, my lord, but I can make it so. It only needs the strike of my quill and some beeswax...and you would become the Sealord of Braavos." Her hand went to the grand seal, tapping it. "I have here the authority to approve and grant you the seat. You would hold one of the richest cities in the Known World, command the greatest merchant fleet and rule both the Shivering and Narrow Sea. In our name, of course." 

Daenerys took in the Lord of Velaryon, watching on as barely veiled awe and amazement started to define his face. Then, it suddenly turned guarded, with eyes taking her in warily. 

"This is a generous boon for loyalty, more than generous even. _Too_ generous, I should say. I suspect there is more to this than you let one." 

Monford was right to assume that. Daenerys was beginning to like him more and more. Monford Velaryon would certainly prove to be of much more us later in her, Rhae's and Jon's reign. Daenerys was going to bring this full circle now. 

"My dear husband made it very clear that the use of our dragons on unruly vassals would no more be the means of first resort. Personally, I did not agree with such a decision, but after much thought, I've come to see the reason why Jonothor decided what he decided. The Writ of Concordance gave the Elder Council legal powers to challenge us whenever they thought fit, and we, as sovereigns, are now obliged to listen to the interests of those elected by the people." Daenerys smirked knowingly. "Presumably, at least. What happens in truth is that those _elected_ representatives listen to whoever throws the most coin at them so they can push their agendas. You included my lord." 

Monford spruced up his back at the accusation. "I know not what this means, my empress." 

"Oh, come now, Lord Monford. Every man with a mind for politics knows what to say, where to invest, who to get in your pocket and which little tidbits of knowledge to share."  

"You mistake me, Your Magnificence, it is not I who has a mind for intrigue." 

Raising an eyebrow, Daenerys considered him. "If not you, who else? The coin traces back to your treasury. I've been assured of that." When Varys died, his web of intelligence remained intact, so Daenerys just about took it over, essentially taking on the role of a spymaster. The Empire was in need of a competent, and _loyal_ this time, spymaster. Daenerys had yet to find him. Or her, even.   

Monford lifted his hand, showing his golden band with a ruby encrusted in it. Daenerys widened her eyes. "Your wife...?"  

Nodding, Monford caressed his ring. "A good man listens to the counsel of his wife, and Prunella is sharp and calculating in the arts of intrigue. It was at her behest that I began to buy off the loyalties of a few Elder Councillors." 

"To what end?"  

Monford pursed his lips. "Knowledge is power, my empress. While I'm unquestionably loyal to you and yours, it would be imprudent to share such sensitive things. I sincerely hope you are not offended by my reluctance to adhere. If it pleases my empress so, then I will fall in line." 

She hummed in thought, pressing her back against the soft cushion of her chair. Lord Monford was not incorrect; any person, even with their loyalties known, were reticent to lay bare the honest thoughts of their minds. Daenerys decided to leave that is it was and not pursue it, putting her faith in the man whom Rhaegar always spoke so good of.  

What did intrigue Daenerys enough for further consideration was Lady Prunella Celtigar. A certain desire to have her here in the flesh prickled her interest, and so, she decided for a later time to invite Monford's consort and see for herself if she could be of use to her and the Empire. 

"Well, in any case, the title of Sealord of Braavos is yours for the taking. I'm more than willing to gift you this highly prestigious status." 

He dipped his head deferentially. "It would be a great honour."  

"Then it is decided." She said in answer. 

Picking up her quill from its inkpot, Daenerys began to carefully sign the imperial decree announcing Lord Monford Velaryon as the new Sealord of Braavos. The document also decreed for the position to be hereditary, crowning House Velaryon as one of the most influential families within the Empire and beyond. This would surely ensure their loyalties to the imperial family. 

"While you will take up residence in Braavos, I have also another decree legitimizing your younger brother, Aurane Waters, granting him the seat of Driftmark. He will continue his line as a cadet branch of House Velaryon."  

And with that, House Velaryon of Braavos was born. With this act, Daenerys had solved the wearisome interregnum of Braavos, assured that the city would henceforth be ruled by people loyal to the Crown, and rewarded a family well due for some compensation for their continuous loyalty and assistance to her house.  

Rolling up the piece of parchment, Daenerys took out a blue ribbon and neatly tied the decree down, storing it away in her drawer. Tomorrow, she would hand this decree to Maester Gyldayn for it to be sent to the Elder Council in Volantis. 

"Now that we have concluded that business, let us turn to the original subject, the possibility of another city." Daenerys said, yet again bringing the map of the Holy Valyrian Empire. 

She and Monford began to see to the map, examining every part of it with great dedication. Several areas of the Empire were discussed; most prevalent being the Disputed Lands around Myr, Tyrosh and Lys, and the lands south of the Forest of Qohor.  

"I do believe raising a new city in the Disputed Lands would be a sound decision; the lands around are rich and fertile and it can serve as a bulwark between the Squabbling Sisters during war times." Monford pointed out, circling the Disputed Land with his finger. "It also has good access to the Summer Sea, so trade could help with the initial first years." 

Daenerys shook her head, disagreeing. "The slaves would be too prone to the whims of the Three Sisters; they might even lay hands on them, whether by the volitions of the city's rulers or those outside of it. No, I need them to be away from the heart of slavery as far as possible." She kept on gazing, her eyes going over all the attributes, taking stock of everything that caught her fancy. Eventually, her interest landed on the foremost rim of the Dothraki Sea, a hand brushing over the Forest of Qohor. "As I keep looking for potential places for settlement, I find myself more and more disappointed. None of these places are peaceful and far enough from the clutches of slavers."  

Silence overflooded her solar as Daenerys started to ponder, the weight on her shoulders starting to feel heavier. Monford remained silent as well, his face set in straight lines, contemplating just as much as she was.   

"What if..." Monford began tentatively. "What if we look elsewhere...?"  

"Elsewhere...?" Daenerys echoed, rubbing her temple as she felt numbness yet again crawling back to her mind. The lack of rest was starting to catch up to her.  

The lines across his face become more pronounced, showing his age better, when Monford made a face of deliberation.  

"The Nine Cities are too overpopulated; we cannot disperse the slaves to them, or else we'd risk the displeasure of citizens finding the arrival of these slaves a threat. Nor can we look at the map and ascertain a suitable location for a new settlement. But..." He turned to face her, and Daenerys could see the cranes inside his head gyrate. "...His Magnificence, Emperor Jonothor, recently launched a campaign into the Sunset Kingdoms, has he not? He has declared himself Suzerain of the Sunset Kingdoms." 

Daenerys could feel her interest well up notably, enthusiasm causing the mounting fatigue inside her head to diminish a fair bit. Slowly, she was starting to realize where Monford was hinting at.  

Putting the map of the Empire aside, Daenerys instead pulled out one of Westeros, smoothening the parchment and glancing through it. How could she not have thought of this sooner? It was absolutely brilliant!  

Westeros was a giant patch of land and only boasted four cities within it; Oldtown, Lannisport, White Harbour and Gulltown. None of them matched the cities of Essos; she was more than certain that the largest city in Westeros could fit in five times inside the lagoon of Braavos. Most of the other settlements were meagre holdfasts and oldened castles, nothing like the great cradles of civilizations due east. One city in Essos rivaled a kingdom's populace in Westeros.  

So what did that mean for Daenerys? All of it was land ripe for the picking. Who could hope to challenge them? Not a single dragon lived in Westeros. And House Targaryen had, next to dragons, an excellent military force at its service.  

Her eyes went over the map, then again, and again, seeking the ideal mark. And then she found it. 

"There," She placed her finger on a mark south-west of Dragonstone. "this bay would serve excellently as the foundation of a new city."  

The estuary was that of the Blackwater Rush, a river with the Gods Eye as its source. It ended in a wide bay, with Dragonstone and Driftmark right on its itinerary. It was easily defensible and excellent for ships to moor should settlements start to spring up there. The lands around it were also bountiful from what she had read over the Riverlands; the soil was as fertile as that of the Disputed Land.  

Most importantly, the land was far away from slaver influence. Here, people could build a life in peace. Here, a better future could be realized for those who previously toiled under the yoke of bondage.  

"We've found an excellent place for the future of hundreds of thousands of people. Jonothor and Rhaenys will be most pleased by this knowledge." Daenerys beamed, gathering her papers. 

"Your Magnificence, if I may ask why you're so convinced about helping the slaves? What caused you to initiate such a grand undertaking such as abrogating slavery?" Monford inquired.  

Daenerys settled her hand on her stomach again, smiling softly at the woodwork of her desk. Her actions were not lost on Lord Monford.  

"For the sake of peace. For the sake of compassion. For the sake of the future, Lord Monford. I want my children to live in a peaceful and fair world, where the strong unburden the weak. Where a hand is extended to those trampled by the feet of the uncompassionate." She looked him straight in the eyes as she said the next words. "I've seen the consequence of slavery to know how it will all end one day. Fire and blood. Slaves are the greatest victims of our cruelty. What kind of ruler would I be if I tolerated the suffering of the unfortunate? The slaves are like you and me, people of flesh and blood. They deserve a life free from bondage. And I will gladly give that to them."  

"A very admirable conviction, my empress." Monford smiled politely." Truly, your compassion is inspiring."  

Daenerys could not help herself think that he sounded a small bit condescending. He must think of her some gullible girl with folly as her dream. Mayhaps he was right, mayhaps this decision was all a disaster in the making. Daenerys would see it to the end anyway, and come what may, make sure that that disaster was averted.  

"The hour has grown late, my lord." Daenerys yawned a little, concealing her mouth with a hand. "I will have the guest chambers prepared for you in a moment. Please, feel free to ask whatever you desire of my servants. They will see to your every need." 

The head of House Velaryon muttered his gratitude and stood up, about to open the door, but a knock surprised them both. Daenerys commanded for whoever knocked on her door to enter. It was one of Maester Gyldayn's scribes. At the moment, Daenerys was not of sound mind to remember his name.  

"Your Magnificence, a missive just arrived. Your hands only. It bears the Emperor's seal." He said, his voice young, sweet and not yet raspy. He was one of the younger scribes. Merry, she remembered, for he always sang merry songs to the scullery maidens.  

"Come forth, Merry. Let me see my husband's missive." The boy respectfully handed over the bound letter and excused himself. 

Daenerys grabbed a paper-knife and folded the letter open, reading its content to the best of her abilities.  

"What does it say, my empress?" She heard Monford ask, the man standing in the doorway.  

Pursing her lips, Daenerys placed the letter on her table and pinched the bridge of her nose.  

"My husband has made a slight change to his itinerary, it seems." 

"Change...?" 

"Yes," Daenerys huffed. "Looks like the Night's Watch requires some assistance. An issue with wildlings as well as a succession crisis. He wishes to adjudicate over the election and see with his own eyes this...wildling issue."  

Daenerys was too tired for this. She was barely able to keep her eyes open. Coming to stand next to Lord Monford, Daenerys beckoned for her guards to lead the way to her private chambers, assigning another guard to lead the Lord Velaryon to his.  

Daenerys would deal with this...sudden turn of events on the morrow. 

Right now, all she wanted was to feel the soft silks of her linens and the cushions of her featherbed lulling her to sleep.  

It would have also been nice if there was someone to cuddle with, however... 

Out of instinct, her hand moved over her stomach, making her smile.  

On second thought...perhaps she did have someone to cuddle with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut, part 3! Hahaha....seriously, what is wrong with me...
> 
> It's quite difficult to go on without writing smut, I'll confess. Have no fear, the next chapter will definitely contain smut.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is extra lenghty....almost 13k. I might have gotten a little carried away with this. Oh well...

**WINTERFELL**    

 **SANSA**    

    

"Who comes before the gods?"    

Sansa swallowed thickly, the walls of her throat throbbing with something she could not place her finger on, an angry and desperate ache bordering on sobs causing it to go taut with tension. It became a painful struggle for her to properly breathe, her chest tight with laden suspense, the chambers of her lungs shrivelled by the touch of cold air.   

The hand around her father's solid arm kept her tethered to the world, even if it quivered like a leaf in a snowstorm, her nerves beyond her control, titillating and sharp-edged, like the broken stem of a winter rose, sap trickling out to sticky her fingers with acid.   

Sansa drew strength from her father's unflinching solemnity and sucked in a deep breath. As her feet trudged over the snow-covered cobblestone path, Sansa's eyes honed towards the heart tree, narrowing on the black-clad figure with his back to her, a cloak of jet and ruby over his arm. Dimmed silence besieged them, broken only by the soft murmurs of curious people, the passing morn wind chafing the slope of her lips and cheeks, caws of the early birds singing sharply. The old gods were speaking, Sansa realized, speaking about her wedding. Were they in the midst of uttering a blessing? Or a curse?  

Her legs shivered as she walked, and not because the air was nipped with cold. Her lambswool stockings did nothing to protect her from the little stabs prickling her skin, nails of the cold wind's fingers scratching over it insistently, making her shudder like a fawn just brought into this world.   

Her heart was pounding with a maddening desire, thump, thump, thump, sharply permeating the air. Sansa reckoned it was at least strong enough for all the people near to catch it drum against her ribcage like a black smith's mallet against his anvil, making preparations for war. Much as she was loath to admit, Sansa could not deny that a hurricane was brewing inside her violently, throwing her into utter disarray. The thinking was difficult, for her mind was scattered, a hundred thoughts all over the place.   

She persevered, however, chiding herself for her little lapse of vulnerability, and went on with her chin held high and her chest puffed out, pride pouring out of her like the embers of a crackling fire spreading out from the great hearth. Sansa could feel herself glow gradually, her inner warmth eating away the anxiety.   

"Sansa of House Stark, Princess of Winterfell, a woman grown and flowered, comes before the gods to beg their favour." Sansa answered the sacred question softly. Father smiled at her with kingly pride, and it flooded her chest with even more warmth to receive his approval so. Father patted her hand after she uttered the hallowed words. Eddard Stark's satisfaction calmed her thundering heart, enough so that she could finally heave and sigh at a normal rhythm again.   

Her old but kind teacher Maester Luwin presided over the ceremony, clad in his cleanest maester's attire for the moment, taking her in with warm, brown, and elderly eyes as he stood there with his arms folded in the billowy sleeves of his robes.   

Sansa never got to see much of her grandsires, having seen Grandfather Hoster only thrice in her life. Grandfather Rickard had passed before her birth, claimed by the sweating sickness, and she only knew of him through Father and his stories. The only other person she regarded as close as a grandfather was Maester Luwin. To see him look at her so affectionately made her curl her lips, spurred on to move forth. With a smile she hoped would convey her genuine glee, she approached her husband-to-be and Maester Luwin.    

With purpose, Sansa and her puissant father continued their path. She was adamant not to waver in front of her beautiful husband-to-be. Sansa willed him to see that he was marrying a woman worthy of his regard. She would not allow her foolish and gratuitous anxiety to rule over her in front of dearest Jon; her excitement was powerful, yes, and Sansa was torn between bouncing on the balls of her heels like a young girl during the winter solstice feasts, or run for the hills altogether, too daunted to accept that today, she would wed the man of her dreams. My future husband, my black knight, my gallant cousin.   

With a slight shake of her shoulders, Sansa reined herself in; stray thoughts and rampant fancies would do her more harm than good. This is not just any occurrence; this is your wedding for the gods' sake. You're marrying beloved Jon to seal Father's fealty. Do not imperil this with little bursts of panic.    

"Who claims her?"  

The old gods had no priests or septons, never required them, unlike the Faith, and as the oldest of them all, it was kind old Maester Luwin who rasped out, hoarsely asking who had come before the old gods.  

Her graceful cousin, so strapping and handsome for her, had his lips curled into a slight smile as he turned to gaze behind him, locking eyes with Sansa. A delicious tremble rolled down the stretch of her spine ever so slightly, gooseflesh stabbing across her arms, the hairs on her nape standing straight as she greedily drank in his pooling eyes. Her own lips were touched with a soft smile as well, cheeks seared just a little as she looked back at Jon; it was most certainly not because of the cold that she felt herself shiver in anticipation.  

Each time she drank in the scalding vigour of Jon's deep eyes, something inside her caught fire, heart set ablaze by sultry tongues of warmth, the heat consuming her every rational thought. It spread low inside her belly, this wildfire, this maddening, nigh uncontrollable desire, pooling in the deepest pits of her core into a powerful maelstrom of fire, the tension of it making her rub her thighs together indistinguishably, almost wantonly so, when it became too much to bear. Sansa had such a hard time concealing her open infatuation for Jon, it translated into bodily signs of discomfort in exceptional moments, even.  

"Jonothor of House Targaryen, Holy Valyrian Emperor, and her cousin, has come to earn his bride in the eyes of the old gods." At last, he answered, eyes a little squinted, dark eye-lashes coming closer, serenity all over his comely face. He was utterly at ease here, surrounded by the weirwood trees, snowflakes glistening across his neck furs and dark ringlets; at that moment, it struck Sansa that her cousin looked so much like her father, like one of the Kings of Winter reigning in the elder days, the cold of winter in their bones, iron and bronze banded across the crown of their heads. He may not worship the old gods, but his ostensible apathy did not insult them, it seemed, for he was welcome and felt welcome within this godly realm. Oh, how utterly inspiring her cousin must look in the eye of the smallfolk.   

Sansa's lips stretched further, pleased to hear him defer to the old gods. Gods above, her heart was pounding so painfully sweet the longer she watched Jon.   

A part of her was pleased to hear that Jon sounded deferential towards the gods of the north. Sansa had appealed to him to show a little more consideration for her sake towards the customs of the North. For a son of a Northern princess, he did not evince any devotion to the old gods. While not cross, Jon did scoff at her, beautiful but cynical dusky eyes gleaming like the daggers of a rogue when she tabled her request. Yet, it still worked, for Jon gently clasped her hands between his own before he kissed her knuckles like a knight would kiss his lady love's hand and said that he would do so.   

Jon did not hold his mother's or his uncle's traditions in high regard, she had discovered during his stay her at Winterfell; he had only once visited the crypts of the Kings of Winter and rarely prayed before the heart tree. He rarely prayed at the sept too. Sansa worried that her cousin mayhaps lived without faith.    

Sansa too kept to the new gods of the south, mostly, a result of following in her mother's footsteps so devotedly, but as a royal princess of the Northern Kingdom, born and bred in the heart of this realm adhering to the old gods, her soul had a place for praying to heart tree as well. She felt compelled by the blood of her father, and her forefathers, to always pay her deference to the nameless gods of the rocks and trees, begging their favour after attending mass at the sept of her mother. Jon showed no such propensity. As much as it disconcerted her that Jon was faithless, she held her tongue about it. Sooner or later, she hoped Jon would be forward with her about it.  

"Who gives her away?"   

"I, Eddard of House Stark, her father the King in the North and Lord of Winterfell." Father declared with dignity, his rumbling voice loud and lucid for all the people present to understand. Her father needed to. It was his way of agreeing and adhering to Jon's will. The lords of the North had to be made aware of her father's intentions. There had been some grumbles amongst Father's vassals when it came to their attention that Sansa, all of a sudden, was to marry her estranged cousin of all people, the foreign emperor who had also just all but demanded their allegiance. The most vocal amongst them were the Umbers and Karstarks, who almost went as far as seeing it as a slight to give away the most desired daughter of the North to some 'southron invader', or so she had heard from the castle servants. While she understood their grievances, Sansa could not say that she was worried; Jon was the ruler of the Holy Valyrian Empire, home to Volantene war elephants, Braavosi dromonds, Qohori blacksmiths, Myrish crossbows and many other things. With only the stroke of his pen, Jon could summon the entire military might of his realm and come to crush any rebel.  

The godswood was filled with only a few people fortunate enough to be close to the lands of Winterfell; Her mother the queen most of all stood out, smiling at her with motherly affection, swathed in steel grey and pearl white garbs, Father's colours. Her Tully blue eyes, so much like her own, were only a slight bit tainted with disapproval as she flickered her eyes to dear Jon.   

Sansa partially understood her mother's misgivings over Jon, but elsewise, it pained her to see that her beloved mother, the person she always turned to for counsel and comfort, did not find it in her to agree to this match with her whole heart.   

Her cousin was perfect in every sense of the word; he was handsome, so stunningly handsome, healthy, the son of Aunt Lyanna, and more than able to take care of her every need. While Sansa was also made aware of the rarity of this situation, if anyone was to pry open the walls of her heart and look inside, they would come to discover, surely to their utter shock, that Sansa did not care much. Truth be told, Sansa was looking forward to this unorthodox but thrilling new adventure.   

She was witnessing the turning of a leaf in her book. A new and exciting moment in her life was about to begin. Her life as a married woman, and soon, gods be good, as a mother as well. Mayhaps, if Sansa brought her mother a grandson or granddaughter to dote on, she would topple her opinion and see Jon in a better light. Sansa was sure of it. At least, she hoped so.   

"Do you take this man?"  

For a brief moment, Sansa looked down at the hand clutching the embroidered skirt of her white dress, her cold fingers rubbing the texture of the lambswool, thoughts submerging in a brooding pond.   

Her royal wedding was inked by precipitance. Within a sennight, the castle had been prepared for the wedding with as much effort as possible. Despite being pressed for time, her mother, Sansa and the entire household accomplished to make Winterfell shine. For nought, it seemed. Jon had made it quite apparent that he wished for the wedding to happen as soon as time allowed. He also did not wish for the wedding to be dragged out; Jon desired to be on the road as quickly as possible, he had said, his tour across Westeros forever at the forefront of his mind.   

It lightly saddened and, honestly, smarted Sansa that Jon paid no heed for the efforts she had put into this. Sansa felt unappreciated for her efforts. Jon did not wish for elaborate festivities, for dances and feasts, like he was going through this out of duty and wished to put a ribbon on it as swift as time allowed. When she said that to him in passing, of course intending for it to spark a reaction, Jon time and time again assured her that he was not intending for that.   

With each assurance, he stole a sweet kiss, indulging her until Sansa sighed dreamily and curled up against him as he tenderly caressed and stroked her sides, soothing her worried heart. I'll hold the grandest feast in New Valyria once this whole affair is concluded. Jon had said, kissing both her hands as he held them. Your entire family and any other person you desire to invite can come. It will be hosted in your honour, I promise you.  

While still in doubt, Sansa felt herself placated to a certain length and no longer allowed it to plague her so. Jon would show his meanings, eventually. He would keep his word.  

Many people she wished to be here were not, Sansa had mused during another day of brooding. Her protector Robb stayed at the Dreadfort with Domeric, too far to make it in time. Her rascal of a sister, Arya, was warding with the Mormonts and her favourite little brother Bran was tucked away somewhere in the dank swamps of the Neck.   

Only Rickon remained of her siblings, and the poor little boy looked thoroughly confused and benumbed while holding on to Mother's skirt, unable to understand the solemnity of today. It also did not help his moods that Shaggydog had escaped the premise and decided to keep away for a while, much to his master's chagrin.  

Sansa started looking around. The other occupants consisted of Winterfell's household, Jeyne and Beth smiling giddily at her from the sides, giving her looks. The lords bannermen of Winterfell who were able to make the trek in only a few days were also present as well as some of the prominent smallfolk of Wintertown.   

The maidservants under Mave's instructions had all gathered and sewn a rather pretty, albeit modest, wedding dress made of white lambswool for Sansa to wear, no extraordinary embroidery or decorations knitted through it. Her maiden's cloak was also nothing worthy of note, made of stoat fur, plain and simple, though warm and comfy for her to bury her face in.  

Sansa nearly cried in outrage when it first dawned upon her that her wedding would be a dim affair. She felt so embarrassed to be presented to Jon in mere linens and wool, no refinery to please his eyes and no high-blooded audience to clout their hands for their union.   

But as the dutiful daughter bred for courtesies, Sansa kept her tongue and graciously accepted the dress, smiling at the simplicity of it all, like her mother had taught her to do in the face of dissatisfactions. A princess's armour were courtesies, she was told, and Sansa had the courtesies mastered at the age of three. She could not show her displeasure so. Jon must think us simpletons for our lack of grace. The North was never known for its love for ostentation, but a royal wedding nevertheless demands garish apparel. I can only hope Jon does not take offence at the whole ordeal.  

All of it was not how Sansa imagined her wedding to look like; her dreams were much more idyllic, with the whole of the North standing witness for her wedding, watching as she took a famed knight or handsome prince or king even as her lord husband, smiling at her with affection and favour, bards singing throughout Winterfell about them, about her wedding, about their love that had yet to blossom.   

Instead, she was given a shy ceremony, with only a handful of people gathered post haste, attending what was arguably the most important moment of her life.   

Sansa would have been a liar if she said she did not ache with a certain bruise of dismay at the lack of pageantry, despite knowing and somewhat understanding the reason behind it all. At least her hair was done nicely, held in place by her golden pins, but it was a small comfort in the grand scheme of things.   

"Sansa?" She jolted out of her musings with a squeak, startled. A solid hand, Father's hand, rubbed across her shoulder as he whispered into her ear. "Are you well, my love?"  

"Do you take this man?" Maester Luwin's voice rattled Sansa out of her ruminations fully as he repeated his question. She jerked up to see him look at her with expectancy. Jon and Maester Luwin shared a look of mild worry. Her cousin gazed at her with a small smile, a brow raised in patience.  

Bashfully, Sansa cleared her throat, wetting her lips before settling her eyes firmly on Jon. She steeled her resolve. In the end, it mattered not, Sansa decided with conviction. She was here, and Jon was here and most of the people she cherished in her life were standing witness to this monumental moment of her life. She would take satisfaction with what she got.  

"I take this man."   

Jon's handsome face crinkled into a smile, nodding curtly at her. She smiled back, willing her heart to still, for it felt like it was about to burst out of her chest.   

Jon's smile made all her worries melt away at that moment. It would all fall into place. Sansa was certain of it.  

Her future husband stretched out his hand, offering Sansa his palm, as was custom. Sansa dared a look at her father, and he nodded once at her, encouraging her with that fatherly air of his that never failed to make her feel safe and protected.   

Sansa grasped Jon's hand, twining their fingers. She was guided before the bark of the heart tree by her cousin, taking in the red sap crawling out of the crevices of the tree's face, like blood trickling out of an old wound.   

The old gods and their faces always twisted her heart with unease, finding them frightening since the day she first fell upon them as a young girl. Now, she stood before them, fright still making her mouth go dry, yet the overwhelming desire to receive their blessing nearly nullifying that unpleasant feeling.   

Sansa and Jon knelt before the heart tree, a token of their submission. She parted with a prayer, closing her eyes and speaking to the gods, begging them for a happy marriage, begging them to bless her and Jon with many years to come, begging them for a fruitful union.   

Begging the gods for Jon to never lose his love and affection for her.   

They both rose to stand on their feet, hands still entwined. Jon let go of his hold on her hand, two fingers gliding across her cheek, affectionately, her heart stuttering at the gesture, before his hands undid the ties of her maiden's cloak. He carefully got it off and handed it to Father.   

Jon unfurled the rich ebony and scarlet samite bride's cloak he had draped over his arm. Sansa barely held back her sharp intake of breath at its beauty, reining in her urge to let her fingers roam over the gleaming texture; it looked as if Jon had torn off a part of the night, blinking stars entrapped in the weaving, with bloodlines accenting it, fine red threads making up the sigil of a three-headed dragon across its expanse. It must have cost a small fortune to make it. As a devoted lover of silks and lace, Sansa recognized the fabric as Myrish, the most desired product coming from the Free City known for its carpets and drapes.   

Tucking it open with a harsh jerk, Jon then threw its magnificent weight over her shoulders before tying the laces at the base of her breastbone, his warm hand resting against her flesh for just a bare moment. Sansa sucked in a breath at the feeling.   

With this act, she now passed from her father's protection to Jon's.  

Now, she was a married woman.  

Sansa Stark was now a consort to the Dragon Emperor.  

The whole assembly cheered boisterously, roaring and applauding when Jon claimed her lips in a sweet but short kiss. Sansa saw stars burst to life as she closed her eyelids, savouring the feel of her husband pressing his lips so delightfully against her mouth. Her lips answered in kind, pouring equal passion into it, searing a promise against Jon's mouth.   

A promise that she would forever abide by his will.  

Jon took her in his arms and the pair were leading the procession back into the castle, followed by laughs and clamour. Small girls were throwing blue petals onto the ground, adorable little creatures singing and smiling at her with innocent fascination.  

Sansa even had to bend to accept the winter rose of a young girl, who told her that Sansa looked as pretty as Maris the Maid and her lord husband as valiant as Symeon Star-Eyes. Her heart flipped and fluttered, cheeks aching from smiling so broadly as she thanked the little girl. The happy faces of her people enchanted Sansa as they kept parting with congratulations at every turn of her steps. She thanked them all respectively, sharing in their jubilation.   

Today was not full of dances, pageantry and songs, but despite that, Sansa demanded of herself to be of merry spirit. A maid should not feel despondent on the day of her wedding, no matter if it went differently than one wished to.   

As she and Jon kept trundling out of the godswood, it took her by surprise when Sansa realized they were not making their way to the bailey, but towards the Great Keep. Jon told her yesternight that a wheelhouse would be at the ready immediately after their wedding, which would then carry them south towards White Harbour.   

Indeed, a large wheelhouse had just rolled to a stop on the grounds of Winterfell's courtyard moments before her wedding. Its size was staggering, if Sansa was honest, for it looked more like a small moat on wheels than a proper carriage.   

Many of Winterfell's guards had been requested to assist in getting the contraption through the gate, for it needed a great deal of joined effort. It was broad as three oxen and as tall as a willow, made of sturdy ironwood and ebony. Black and red tapestries glided down the front and back, and banners with the imperial sigil of House Targaryen stuck out at various corners, waving in the wind. It had six wheels, three at each side, fastened by a long beam of wood which seemed to serve as a shield for unwanted objects stuck in the spokes.   

"Jon?" Her fingers tucked at his arm to garner his attention, catching his smiling eyes. "I thought we would be on the road after the ceremony?"   

Patting her hand, Jon let her further into the courtyard, trundling on the steps of the Great Keep's entrance. "I had a change of heart, or rather, someone had it changed. Today is a day to remember, especially for a woman who is about to leave behind the only home she has ever known. I made the mistake of forgetting the value of a wedding to a woman." He gave her a chaste peck on the lips, and Sansa blushed. "I want you to enjoy this. The day is young, daybreak hasn't even ended yet. We can enjoy some of it and then leave when nightfall comes."   

Delighted, Sansa leaned in for a kiss of her own, pressing her lips lightly to his shadowed cheek, her lips tingling as they left the rugged hairs of his beard. "What caused you to think elsewise, dearest Jon?"   

"It's not what that caused this, it's who. Dany wrote to me a most..." Snorting, Jon shook his head, dancing within the darkness of his eyes a keen fondness and slight melancholy. "...amusing missive."   

Sansa blinked, the smile dropping off her face. The name of his first wife made her a little squirmy, her white dress tight across her chest all of a sudden, the joy from earlier sizzling out like air out of her.   

With a pang, Sansa was reminded with the truth that she was not Jon's only wife; he had two waiting for him at Dragonstone, by whom he fathered two sons already. The uncommonness of her circumstances came rushing to her again, pressing a wet cloth to her back, the shivers and, dare she say, gut-wrenching prickles making her flush with coldness.   

Sansa was more than aware in what she had stepped into, but as childish as it sounded, Sansa was swept up in the haze named Jonothor Targaryen, keeping out of mind the truth of certain things. When word came of her cousin's sojourn to the North, Sansa had been of knowledge that Jon was a spoken man, married already and father of two sons. At least, she had been told so by the winds of rumours and hearsay. A part of her mind decided to omit certain...facts, so that Sansa could fit Jon into her idyllic imagery and entertain her own wishful thinking. Foolish apparitions, Sansa lamented in hindsight.   

Sansa would have to draw satisfaction knowing that she always came after two other women. Yet again, Sansa had to remind herself what she decided to take part in, somewhat. It still did not stop her from wondering. Would there ever be regrets?  

Jon took stock of her sudden lapse of silence and she could feel his hold on her arm constrict. "I understand that these may not be...circumstances you, or your parents, would feel at ease with. You're both an adherent to the new gods of the Faith and the old gods of the First Men, where marriage is established by tradition and ceremony thousands of years old." Sansa listened with rapt attention, keen on hearing what Jon had to say; it may very well dictate their marriage or her entire relationship with Jon by large. "When we're on our way, there will be things we have to discuss." The hint of something grave was apparent in his deep timbre. Sansa shivered at the connotations.   

Jon continued. "Daenerys wrote back to me when I told her of my desires on leaving the North as soon as I could after our wedding. She did not take it in stride." He began to chuckle, wry amusement dying itself all over his face. "What she wrote to me was nothing short of a scolding. I could read it in her handwrit that she was outraged, on your behalf, that I would, according to her words, 'arrive and deprive' the North of its most valued daughter and then proceed to go on my way without paying the proper respects the North was due. 'It's a marriage she's entering, not an agreement to be traded like cattle, at least give the girl a chance to dance with her father on her wedding day' were words she had underlined very explicitly."   

Sansa's cheeks pinked, abashed, not knowing what to make of this. Incongruous thoughts swirled through her mind. Empress Daenerys had chastised her husband for her sake. It both confounded, humbled and honoured Sansa that Jon's wife, instead of cold indifference, wished her the best. Daenerys Targaryen seemed like a lovely person, all care and compassion. In passing, Jon had spoken of his wife with her father, a tone full of reverence and adoration.   

Would he one day speak of her, to her, with the same tone?  

"I'd like to write to Her Magnificence, then." Sansa resolved. They had entered the Great Hall, the hearths around roaring with fire as a few servants hurled thick logs into the crackling flames, feeding them and bathing the place with warmth. Sansa's blue eyes met Jon's, determined. "To express my gratitude, I'll write to her personally." She bit her lip, suddenly unsure of herself. "If it pleases you, that is."  

"I might think she'll like that." Jon granted her a smile, fondness welled up in his eyes. "You'll come to love her, I'm certain. Between her and Rhae, it was Dany who showed the most enthusiasm for this quest, coming to Westeros and all that. In fact, this..." Out of his pocket, Jon brandished a small object. "...was made by their insistence."  

It gleamed in the light of the candles, like a little star. Sansa allowed herself to gaze at it intently. Upon further scrutiny, she came to realize that it was a ring. A silver-gold ring encrusted with a sapphire, glyph carvings running across the band.    

Jon held it before their sight. "I present to you your first wedding gift, Sansa; a dynastic ring denoting you as a member of House Targaryen." They stopped right in the middle of the hall as Jon slipped the ring over her finger, placing it there neatly. It settled over her skin nicely as Sansa held up her hand to appraise it, the sapphire shimmering like a little lightning bolt entrapped inside a glass.   

"It's beautiful..." She was rendered mute by how exquisite it looked. Her eyes tried to make sense of the glyphs, but her effort fell through. "What do these symbols mean, Jon?"   

Taking her hand, Jon traced the ring with his finger. "It's an axiom."  

"What does it translate to?"  

Jon's smile had a hint of pride. "Fire and Blood, the words of my house. My wives have an eye for pretty jewellery and strong statements. Rhae picked out the ore and Dany instructed me to have it made like this."  

"Your...wives advised you to make it so?" Again, unease gnawed at her. Every time Jon's wives were brought up, an odd prodding harried her insides, knotting them into a lump, as though her innards were knotted and twisted until they felt like a spiked ball was placed at the bottom of her stomach. Why, oh why was she so bothered, Sansa wondered...  

Jon held her by the shoulder and leaned in, shielding their faces from the encroaching crowd. "The ring has a certain meaning, Sansa." An arm coiled around Sansa's waist, pulling her flush against her husband with care but intent. One of her hands sprawled across his stomach, her fingers tracing the cords of muscles there, shivering in delight at their feel. The other was pressed against Jon's collarbone, and Sansa looked with widened eyes at Jon, faces settled against each other. His bearded cheek scratched against hers.   

Jon's breath tickled her earlobe as he sighed. "With this ring, you are denoted as a member of the Targaryen family, meaning, your allegiance lies with me, and with me alone. You are no longer a Stark foremost, but a Targaryen, if not by blood, then by name and loyalty." Turning, the rings of Jon's purple eyes engrossed her, and Sansa gulped at the imperious authority crackling inside them. Her body felt warm, hot even, the laces over her corset too tight as a sudden coil began to knot within her stomach. "Your future was chosen for you the moment that ring slid across your finger." Gently, Jon swiped two of his fingers across her cheekbone, then going down to trace the curl of her bottom lip. Despite the tender gesture, Jon gazed into her eyes, pinning her to her place, unbridled and domineering. "Do you understand, Sansa?"   

"Yes..." She breathed out, melting against him; could she have said anything else but yes? No. With him holding her so imperiously, so possessively, the power of a dragon in his eyes, Jon could have asked her anything at that moment.  

And Sansa would have obeyed without question.   

"Good..." Jon kissed her lips and released her, spinning Sansa free from his hold, setting the tone of a dance as the music started to fill the hall. "Now, let us enjoy this wedding feast, my dear."   

* * *

As the wedding day proceeded, the revelries inside Winterfell reached a fever pitch when dusk came prowling upon them, merriment and laughter now flowing as freely as the ale and wine served around after a rather frosty and formal start. Many of the North did not know how to answer the opulence of this grand feast, taken aback by its sudden appearance and abundance. Only when her father declared for the feast to begin did Sansa's people thaw and start to luxuriate in this feast.  

Some of the gruffest Northmen now sang as bawdily as they could, slamming their tankards against the wood of their table in crude cadence, faces red from inebriation. Maidservants were busy dodging grasping hands, smiling despite, as they served the denizens of Winterfell dutifully. Even the guards were grinning, looking at the plates like starved wolves as roasted mutton chops, aurochs tenderloins, boar cutlets, baked bread and White Harbour wine were served.   

From the corner of her eyes, Sansa spotted Beth talking to young Cley Cerwyn, blushing and looking smiling shyly as he regaled her with stories. Jeyne, Jory and Ser Rodrik were seated together, each of them looking on with laughter as Ronnel Stout shared one of his witty tales.   

All the other tables were equally decorated with similar nourishments, wheels of cheese and barrels of ale being passed around with consistency while pork sausages dipped in hot grease were being devoured by every single guest Sansa met. Jon had not remained humble in his expenses; all of this had been paid by his coin. He wanted to indulge a people so utterly unwonted to sumptuosity.   

Sansa could not remember a time in her life where she had beamed and tittered so much as she had today, her feet floating over the floor of the Great Hall as she danced to the Seasons Of My Live and Two Hearts That Beat As One. Sansa refused to be with anyone except for her father or her husband. She made an exception for little Rickon when the little boy so sweetly asked for a dance with his elder sister. So many times had she spun him around, Rickon must have started to see stars, and still, her little brother gave hearty laughs right out of his belly.   

Her dance with Father was sweet, but bitter as well; it felt like a farewell, the last waltz between father and daughter before Sansa was to leave for the south. Sansa savoured the feel of her brave and kind father holding her in his arms as they swayed to the tunes of the high harp. The tears came unbidden, soaking the dark furs of Eddard Stark's great mantle. Father had told her again and again that this would not be the last time she would see him, brushing the tears rolling down her cheeks away with his thumb as he said so. Her heart comforted, Sansa nodded, looking upon the proud face of her king, her father, her first protector and kissed his cheek before she left his arms and embraced her husband.    

When she fell in Jon’s arms, flames of desire enveloped her once more. His hands, oh, his strong hands, whenever they were not covered by his black cotton gloves, were so warm and solid, calloused from years of wielding and swinging a sword he once told her. His hands roamed all over her body as they stepped in tune with the music.   

Jon had touched her before, of course; like a pair of lustful youths, Sansa and Jon had stolen a few moments beneath alcoves to share a small moment. The feel of his lips was seared upon her memory still. This time, all of Jon's touches were laced with a different meaning; he was now her husband proper and she his lady wife. His touches were not improper.   

He could have his fill of her.  

And Sansa would surrender to him most willingly.  

When Jon placed his hand upon the small of her back and guided her to the floor with his usual grace, Sansa thought she was struck by a bolt, electrified and full of a heady feeling, as though drunk, too much Arbor gold in her veins. She thought this was what it meant to walk alongside the stars. A scalding heat started to spread across her back and rush downwards, pulsing all the way to her toes when Jon’s hands pressed upon her hips.   

And the dance was everything she imagined. Her husband had twirled her around as many times as she wanted and allowed Sansa to take the lead if she so wished. As humble as he was about his dancing, commenting self-deprecatingly how he would try to avoid stepping on her toes, Sansa sat back rosy-cheeked at the high table, smiling, her pounding heart dulcifying against her breast. Sansa's feet felt deliciously sore from dancing, and not one toe was bruised.  

Her ever courteous husband even took Mother to the floor, holding and guiding her through the dance with astute politeness and pointed elegance that seemed to have melted some of the frost around Catelyn as small words were traded between them. She even kissed his cheek when they parted. Sansa wondered what Jon had said to placate her mother.   

And then, the last hour had come upon them.  

The end of her wedding feast.  

The rays of the sun had long settled behind the horizon when the last song ended, the minstrels bowing as hundreds of guests clapped at their performance. Already a few had decided to retire, eager to sleep out their haze or to find something else to amuse them as the wedding started to water down.   

Sansa and the rest of her family looped out of the Great Hall once it was officially announced that Jon and she would depart from Winterfell and make their way down south towards White Harbour. It was decided not to include a bedding ceremony, much to Sansa's relief; Jon had no desire to have his newly cloaked bride be pawed by drunken hands. He had remained sober through it all, only sipping a few times from his gilded goblet.   

Sansa had more than a few gulps, but she was far from being in her cups. A pleasant and warm flush only hinted at her slightly merry bearings. The chill of the night caused the wine to subside gradually, her nose and cheeks red from cold as Sansa lightly rubbed her arms to create some friction of warmth. Jon already had discarded his own mantle and had it draped over her shoulders, the scent of his body clinging to its hairs. More than once did Sansa take a sniff of that musky smell, letting it tingle her nostrils pleasantly.   

Lady was lying on the ground nearby the wheelhouse, her ever-faithful direwolf finally back from her time in the Wolfswood. Her lupine companion had been elusive these days, disappearing into the woods only to return with her muzzle wet with blood. As Lady and her siblings grew older, they started to stalk the forests more and more oft, refusing to sleep in the kennels alongside the dogs. Grey Wind, Summer and Nymeria had parted with their masters, but they too showed tendencies to abandon the premises of Winterfell and skulk about the wilderness. Sansa understood; a castle was no place for a direwolf to perpetually inhabit. They desired freedom. Sansa desired freedom too, and the small moments where she and Lady shared their dreams, she understood. Now, her beloved companion was back, wishing to join Sansa in her journey south.   

Jon's Dragonguard were occupied with loading in the large wheelhouse, some carrying the contents of a few crates inside as others were preparing the destriers for their journey; she spotted a few decanters of red wine in their arms. One guard even held a thick white bearskin across his arms and threw it inside.   

"So, this is goodbye then, my love." Father began softly, and Sansa could feel tears prickle at the side of her eyes.   

Sansa left Jon's side and came to embrace her parents. "I will write often. At least once every moon. I promise by the old gods and new."  

"We would like that very much, sweetling." Father tightened his hold on Sansa before he released her. Mother kissed her brow and held her face, gracing her with a watery smile.   

Rickon had not relinquished his grip on Mother's hand. He was determined to see what all the fuss was about. His little mind did not yet realize his sister was about to leave him, mayhaps forever even.   

Sansa crouched and held both Rickon's small hands, her little brother squirming a bit to try and wrench his hands free. "Now, you'll be a good little princeling and avoid giving Mother and Father so much trouble. Mother especially will turn old if you keep up your chicaneries." Squeezing, Sansa stared into Rickon's eyes sternly. "Have I made myself clear, Rick?"  

Tipping his head to the side, Rickon grinned boyishly, his front teeth missing. "Will you bring me a lion's pelt from the south? Or a steel dagger? Shaggy's teeth are so hard to pick clean with normal toothpicks. When you come back, I'll tell you Arya's little secrets in return, Sans!"  

Sansa's throat constricted, making her worry her bottom lip. Sweet Rickon and his flight of fancies.   

Sansa was fighting off her tears; Sansa did not want to give little Rickon reason to fret. To save face, she pulled her littlest brother into an embrace and peppered his forehead with kisses repeatedly. As expected, he took offence, making a noise of disgust and wriggled out of her hold, scowling at her. Sansa laughed at his outraged face as he furiously wiped off his forehead.   

"Sansa, it's time for us to leave. The journey south will be a long one." He gazed up from where he stood near the doors of the carriage. "No clear sky is a bad omen; we may have to make several stops down south."  

Sansa nodded, brushing off the dirt from her skirts with a gloved hand. She smiled ruefully at her parents and gave her final goodbyes, kissing each of her parent on the cheek before she walked away. Her friends had bidden her goodbye already, embracing her tightly, all three of them unable to keep their tears at bay as they parted. Now, she had given her farewells to her kin.   

Her husband offered his hand, her handsome and strong husband; by the gods, she would never tire calling him as such.   

Jon was looking on at her with unreadable eyes as he helped her with the steps of their wheelhouse. He caressed the skin of her leather glove, tucking Sansa close to him. "This won't be the last time you'll see your kin, Sansa."   

Sansa raised her eyes. "Would you allow me to come back here as often as I wish?"   

"Not when I have need of you, Sansa. The Empire demands my every attention, and I require yours when it becomes too much to bear." With forlorn, Sansa bobbed her head, her teeth chattering. She could feel her chin tremble a little. Suddenly, Jon tilted her head up and placed a soft kiss to her lips.  Sansa shuddered in delight. "But when days of leisure come to pass, we can come and see the North again." Smiling, Jon's dark eyes flickered behind her, to her parents. "I'm not so cruel to refuse a grandfather his grandson."   

That brought her hope. The promise of children elevated her spirits. Already, a little boy or girl in the cradled of her arms stirred a fierce desire within her.  

"Gods be good, that future won't be far away." Sansa wished for her smile to convey her budding hope.  

Their little bubble burst when a rider stormed through the gates without prelude. "King Eddard! King Eddard! I need His Grace King Eddard Stark!"  

Father turned in alarm at the sudden call of his name. Sansa looked on as three black riders atop haggard horses galloped through the gates of Winterfell and circled the courtyard. They were brothers of the Night's Watch, their black garbs riddled with twigs and holes. They must have gone through a harsh journey.   

"What's the meaning of this?" Father barked as the black brothers dropped to a knee. "Rise, by the old gods! Rise and explain to me why you three suddenly storm through my gates like barbarians!"  

"My lord!" One black brother said. "The Night's Watch pleads the King in Winterfell to come to its aid!" If Father was alarmed, now he was fully on edge, broad shoulders squared, back straightened and eyes widened like moons. A snarling wolf came to Sansa's mind, one rearing on its haunches, furs bristling and fangs bared.  

She and Jon had stepped down their wheelhouse, her new husband's hand firmly on her hip, keeping her close to him.  

"The Night's Watch is in turmoil, my king! Lord Commander Mormont has been murdered beyond the Wall while the threat of a wildling invasion the likes we have never seen is impending!"  

"Jeor? Murdered!?" Father erupted, wroth in his thunderous roar. Several men-at-arms came out, spears and swords at the ready, cowering at the fury of their king.  

"Yes, Your Grace..." There was anger and grief in his voice as well. "A band of turncloaks led by that vicious bastard Ramsay saw it fit to plunge a dagger in his back. They've set up a camp somewhere in the lands north of Castle Black, around the rims of the Haunted Forest. They've forsaken their vows and now prowl the highlands as bandits."  

"Uncle Ned? What's all this ruckus about? Why do you look like you're in grieving?" Jon seemed to have tired of standing by idly and approached her fretting father.  

Father wiped his beard with a hand, conflict clearly written over his features.   

He looked with grief at the ground, fists clenched into tight balls. "The gods have bereaved me of a good ally. Jeor Mormont was a good friend of my father, I've learned a great deal from him. It seemed he's fallen prey to practices most foul. He's been betrayed and murdered. By the gods, how could this have happened..."  

The black brother shuffled closer. "Please, my lord, we need your assistance in getting the Night's Watch back to some semblance of order. We've been leaderless for weeks. The Watch is almost tearing at the seams."   

Sansa looked at her anxious father with concern. This sounded like a most dire situation. As King in the North, the Night's Watch, while an independent brotherhood, still fell under the jurisdiction of her father. The Starks and the Watch have been allies for centuries, if not ages. So, it was obvious what her father's answer was ought to be.   

It was therefore that nobody expected dear Jon to speak.   

"Uncle, allow me to see to this situation myself." Sansa blinked. Her head tilted in askance to look in puzzlement at Jon. Her father was of a similar state of mind, dishevelled and taken aback, brown locks whipping gently in the wind.   

"Are you certain, Jon?" She inquired in her father's stead, resting her palm against his arm to garner Jon's heed.   

"Yes." Jon smiled in kind before he settled his focus on the brothers of the Night's Watch. "Mother's favourite tales were around the famous Wall and the Night's Watch. The Long Night, the Battle for the Dawn, the horrific exploits of the Night's King. Rumour has it that it's the tallest structure in the Known World."  

"Jon, this isn't some leisure walk through the godswood." Father frowned. "Do not take this so lightly."   

"You're right, Uncle. I'm sounding a bit smug about it. Forgive me, it was not my intention. Still, I wish to depart for the Wall, and settle these matters myself." A hand went out to gesticulate towards a Dragonguard. "Send a raven south, to Daenerys. Write to her that there has been a sudden turn of events."  

Father placed a hand against Jon's shoulder. "I will ask you again, nephew. Are you certain about this? Do I have your word that you will take this matter most serious?"  

"I'm wounded, uncle. Do you think me some merry adventurer? "  

"No, but I-"  

"Then I ask you to have some faith."  

Sighing, her father slumped his shoulders. "Very well, then. I will leave these matters in your hands, Jon. The Umbers, Karstarks and the Flints of the mountain clans will be written and commanded to send a retinue north, to aid you and your efforts there. I will ride North in a matter of days, to see to the circumstances myself. I have a few matters here to finish before I can."  

"Then it's settled. Be assured, Sansa will write to you regarding the affairs that will transpire. I'll try to solve this issue, to show you that I do have the North's best interest at heart. Now, with your leave, we'll leave Winterfell, Uncle Ned."  

Bowing his head a little, Father nodded and gave him leave.   

The pair stepped inside the confines of Jon's wheelhouse. The inside of the carriage was decorated warmly, numerous furs thrown over the floor. No benches were to be found, only a large bed beneath the shuttered window, piled with heavy furs.   

Along the sides, there were rows of stored carafes, filled with various contents; some burned red, some shone white, and some contained a peachy colour. On the other side, a few bowls filled with numerous fruits were placed, and atop that row, baskets of bread and small pots of honey stood out. The place was well stocked with sustenance.   

Sansa was marvelling the sheer luxury of the intricate woodworks   

Jon stripped himself of his black fur cloak, loosening the buttons of his doublet with a hand. "The gods never stop playing their games of fate, it looks like. I was of a mind to once visit the Wall at least once in my life. Now is a time as good as any."  

"I've been to the Wall, once. Uncle Benjen is a ranger at the Watch, First Ranger even, and Father always worries himself over his wellbeing, as he so far from home." Sansa removed her soggy boots and primly tucked them away somewhere. She smiled at her husband. "If you wish, I can guide you across the Wall, if time allows for such leisure."  

Her husband chuckled. "Certainly." Sansa began to remove her dark bride's cloak, but it proved to be a challenge. Noting her struggles, Jon gestured for her to come over. "Here, let me help you remove your cloak and dress."   

Sansa happily stepped into his space before she turned, presenting her back as she gathered her hair and threw over one shoulder. Her heart was pounding against her breast, knowing where this was leading towards. Jon's hands were meticulous in removing the laces, his deft fingers taking their time, gently pulling at laces and taking off layer after layer of thick northern wools and furs. The wheelhouse was not cold, but Sansa still shivered when she was only clad in her white silken smallclothes and grey stockings.   

"Are you nervous, sweet cousin?" Jon whispered into her ear, pressing his clothed chest against the thin fabric separating her skin from his.   

"No..." She muttered back. It was a lie; her body trembled with jittery nerves. She was excited, but also a bit frightened. Sansa threw a look over her shoulder and met Jon's unconvinced face.   

His arms came up, stroking the skin of her arms. "Liar..." His chin came to rest on top of her shoulder, arms slithering across her torso, just beneath the curves of her breasts. "I can feel you shudder in my arms." Jon's lips came to press against the tendons beneath her shoulder, never breaking eye contact.   

Sansa let out a breathless laugh, feeling herself hiccup almost as Jon kept peppering her shoulder with soothing kisses. "Of course, I'm nervous, Jon..." Batting her eyelashes, she licked her lips and began to wriggle in Jon's embrace. Something poked at her backside and Sansa stifled her gasp at the hardness of it. "I'm about to consummate my marriage and become a true woman in the eyes of the world."   

Sansa was turned around, coming to face Jon, her hands finding home on top of his shoulders now. He nuzzled her neck lovingly, making her keen and whimper. Jon's glorious hands rubbed her sides, as if she were a filly he was trying to calm. "I understand if you're tense...but you have nothing to fear from me, my little dove."   

Jon had taken to call her his little dove in private. The term was endearing and soft; it made her giddy and loved, a swarm of butterflies fluttering inside her belly every time he called her that.   

Sansa leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss against Jon's lips, which he deepened almost instantly. They parted for air, at least, Sansa was, while Jon seemed not too fazed. He cupped her jaw and swiped with the pad of his thumb over her pinked cheek, indigo eyes burning brightly.   

Sansa bit her lip, leaning her weight against Jon more firmly, her breasts touching his sternum. "Mother said...that the first time can be painful."   

"She is not wrong."   

The cadence of her heartbeat sped up. "Will you be gentle, then?"  

Again, Jon caressed her face softly, lovingly, the quavers running down her spine subsiding with each tender swipe of his thumb. Sansa got her answer, she mused, melting in his arms like butter. Her lips failed to contain her mewling, adoring the touches like a kitling. Sansa arched her back, pressing herself harder against Jon. Trundling back, Jon and Sansa collapsed on top of the bed's surface, the feathers indenting with their weight. Sansa was on top, her fingers sliding across the slope of Jon's jaws.   

And then she came down upon his lips.   

This was nothing like the kisses he bestowed upon her during his stay.   

These were much more fervent.   

Her core inflamed as she was being devoured, lips locked together with overflowing desire, the sound of their kissing embedding itself throughout the room. Sansa's hands carded through Jon's long brown ringlets, undoing his braid and combing her fingers through the dark tresses, loving their soft quality. They were smooth and silky and oh so lovely. Sansa could lose herself forever in currying Jon's hair.   

Jon's left hand had left her side and started to tangle in her own mane, untying the complex southern plaits carefully. Sansa felt her backside being caressed, squeezing the flesh, moaning into Jon's mouth as he did so.   

His fingers bumped against the pins keeping her locks in place, and he removed them slowly, mindful not to cause her pain. Her heart swelled at his tenderness. When he was done opening her mane of bright Tully hair, Jon tossed the pins across the floor and resumed his combing, locks of her hair now spilling between his fingers like water.  

Their kissing had not stopped nor dimmed in intensity; Each nib and lick was stronger than the previous one, connotated more and more with desire and want.   

An arm wrapped around her waist and Jon sat up, Sansa perched neatly in his lap, her thighs clamping his. Still, her hands did not leave his hair, her nails now scratching Jon's scalp, earning her little growls of satisfaction. They kept kissing, exploring each other tentatively, slow and determined, fanning the embers of a flame into a mounting bonfire.  

"Pull off the remainder of your clothes, sweet Sansa." Her arms gripped the hems of her shift and Sansa disrobed herself, the air grazing the flesh of her skin. Immediately, Jon wrapped his arms around her, steadying the small of her back and her hip. Sansa could feel her nipples pebble into hard nubs, cold air blowing over her skin.   

"Gods, but you are quite a sight to behold."   

Sansa blushed, feeling fuzzy at Jon's praise. He was warm and solid as he took Sansa in his arms again, his entire being wrapped around her like a cloak, lips brushing over each other while hands explored eagerly. His doublet was thrown aside, only a fine black tunic covering his chest now. A few patches of hair protruded out of Jon's neckline. Sansa was eager to feel if they were as coarse as his beard, or as silky as his tresses. While she was as bare as her nameday, Jon still remained clothed. She wanted to bring change to that.  

"Jon, can you undress for me? Please? I-I want to see you. All of you." Her tone faltered now and then, tongue-tied as excitement and anxiety waged war inside of her.   

Jon wordlessly got rid of his tunic, exposing his toned chest to her. Sansa took in a sharp breath as she drank in the numerous silvery scars running down his rippled flesh, vicious-looking marks that made her spine tingle. A finger began to tail their curves, carefully mapping out Jon's badges of honour, the confirmation of his bravery.   

"Do they hurt?" Sansa breathed out.  

Jon slowly shook his head. "They're old and healed." He claimed her lips in a sweet kiss. "You can examine my scars another time, little dove. Right now, I wish to make you a proper woman."  

He flipped them over, Sansa squealing as she dented their featherbed with her body. Jon lingered above her, capturing her lips again, this time with more force, letting his tongue tangle with hers, making her flutter her eyes dizzily. He called this a Dornish kiss; full of crossing tongues and drinking each other's spit. By far, it was her most favourite kiss.   

Gods, every time they indulged in Dornish kisses, her core would burst into flames wantonly.   

Suddenly, he disentangled his mouth from Sansa. She whined at the contact of his gratifying mouth, but not soon after, she moaned and squirmed again as Jon blew a path of kisses down the stria of her body; his lips, his sinfully competent lips latched on her nipples, suckling them curtly before delicately taking the nub between his teeth, pressing his jaws together in a little bite.   

Her hand grabbed a handful of the fur above her head, another grabbing Jon's hair roughly, twisting her fingers through them. Gods, what was Jon doing to her body? She felt delicious, delirious, set on fire and struck by lightning all at the same time, unadulterated passion boiling in her veins. Mother had never mentioned any of this. Neither had Jeyne. Her best friend was no maid, she once callously quipped, and told her all about the woes and wishes during coupling.   

Jeyne had told Sansa about her little adventures with a stable boy named Willam, days before Sansa's wedding. Jeyne quipped how she had lost her maidenhead with hay tangled in her hair and the smell of horse dung around. Sansa knew Willam; he was tall and handsome in a plain way. It came as little as a surprise to her that Willam and Jeyne decided to sate their curiosity. They were young and curious over the opposite sex. After she was done, Jeyne made it sound like it was a chore, like it was nothing to brag about. She must have made a poor judgment regarding the boy.   

Because Jon managed to set her whole body flush with desire.  

And he had yet to enter inside her.   

So deep in her own thoughts, Sansa forgot about the world around her until she felt wetness across her thigh. Dilating her eyes, she came to brace herself on her elbows.   

"W-what are you doing?"   

Jon's eyes looked arch, the tips of his canines scratching over her flesh while his tongue laved over her pale skin. Sansa could feel her thighs shake with anticipation; her lips were puckered as little whines tumbled out of her mouth, finding the sight extremely arousing.   

"Preparing you."   

"H-how...?"  

A crease formed over his brows. "Have you never heard of the 'Lord's Kiss', sweet girl?" By the gods...was he about to do what she- "No matter, I'll show you how a man makes his woman ready." He winked at her. "You'll love it, I have no doubt."  

With effort, Jon threw the length of her legs over his shoulders, her feet placed against his back, muscles in Jon's back flexing and jumping as her toes curled and crawled over his skin.   

She felt the fabric covering her most private place tucked aside, Jon's hot breath winnowing over her wet folds.   

"My, you have such a pretty cunt, Sansa...all pink and groomed, twitchy and slick with arousal." He praised before he gave a careful sweep of his tongue across her slit.   

Sansa startled, biting into her lip, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Indeed, she had trimmed the hairs above her...cunt, on the advice of Jeyne.   

That lick had sent a jolt of desire through her body. A jolt so powerful, it caused her spine to tingle with desire, hips kicking against his mouth.   

Not knowing what else to do in this vulnerable position, Sansa brought the soles of her feet up and down over Jon's back instead. He hummed in response. "That's a good girl. Keep caressing my back while I sup on your cunt."   

And then he dove headfirst into her core.   

"Ah! J-Jon..! Please, I..." Sansa bucked her hips against Jon's mouth as he swiped his tongue between her folds, rubbing her moist womanhood firmer over the source of her pleasure. Jon took her thrusts in stride, a hand coming to press on her stomach, keep her grounded against the bed.   

Then he began to suckle, drinking from her lower lips so loudly, so lewdly, Sansa had to close her eyes, her cheeks burning as jolt after jolt of pleasure threatened to numb her into oblivion.   

Her wedding day was full of surprises, both pleasant and unpleasant, but this experience was something else entirely. Sansa felt as if the Seven Heavens had welcomed her into their folds, wings sprouting from her back, flying through the clouds like a bird.   

Sansa's fingers were brushing through Jon's mane of brown hair, tucking at them sometimes harshly whenever the pleasure was too much to bear. She feared she might have unrooted some locks in her enthusiasm. Jon did not seem to mind, however, only further buoyed to delve his tongue deeper through her channel, making her grind her pelvis against his mouth.  

"Oh, that's a good girl, rub yourself all over my face." He groaned, eyes coming to peer through locks of ebony hair. Sansa brushed them aside, staring deep in Jon's dark eyes, gulping down her moans as she kept rolling her hips. "Play with your breasts for me, little dove."   

Her hands found her teats, and she began to fondle them slowly while Jon kept his head between her thighs. She took her nipples cautiously between her fingers and pinched them a little. Her vision began to blank, a giant stretch of white in front of her. It took her ten solid seconds before the world bled back into colour as the pleasure almost knocked her unconscious.    

Sansa yelped as Jon's tongue flickered the nub above her weeping entrance. And again, and again, before he started an onslaught, suckling on it deliciously.   

"Oh gods, Jon...I'm...I'm a-about to-Oh!"  

Her climax came along like a battering ram; hard and sudden. Sana could feel herself clench down there almost painfully, moaning loudly as her peak hit her. Sansa's breasts were going up and down alongside her troubled breaths. She had an arm over her eyes, too embarrassed to look at Jon. Gods the sounds and moves she made earlier. She was a princess! Not a touch-starved harlot!  

"You made such pretty noises when you peaked, my little dove, keening and moaning as I lapped at your cunt." Jon's face came to rise, and to her utter mortification, his beard glistened with wetness, her wetness. To make her choke even harder on the lump in her throat, her husband brought a hand over his beard and wiped it off easily, grinning smugly at her after he smacked his lips, as if the fluid did not bother him at all. "Gods, have I missed bringing pleasure to a woman."   

Sansa came down from her high slow but surely, and as the fog of her peak settled, she noticed the dent in his dark breeches. "Would you like for me to return the favour, Jon?"   

Her lovely husband only smiled but shook his head, descending upon her, laying claim to her lips as he did so. "No, sweet creature, that won't be necessary..." Jon's strong hands stroked her backside, cupping it and letting its weight fill his palm. "Another time, perhaps..." Jon sat back on his haunches and fumbled with the laces of his breeches.   

"Allow me." Sansa said as she came to grab her husband's hands and tucked them away, before her own fingers started undoing the laces. Sansa jumped as Jon's manhood sprang free, almost slapping her chin.   

She took a moment to admire her cousin-turned-husband's naked form in the light of the candles, the hard muscles of his body jumping and stretching beautifully each time he moved around, scars carved into them, trophies, badges of honour and mementos to stress his bravery as a strong warrior. Sansa licked her lips unconsciously, heavy pants escaping her lips as she drank Jon in, blue eyes roaming over his impressive form, especially his swollen member jutting out from a small thatch of dark hair. It was sizable and thick, standing at attention like a spear. For a moment, Sansa feared it would not fit, for its length looked quite intimidating, but by the gods, was Jon handsome, all virile beauty and elegance, an emperor even without clothes on. In all his naked glory, Sansa felt her desire reach a boiling point. She was eager for her husband to consummate their marriage, despite her fears.  

Now that they were both equally naked, some of her discomforts lifted slightly. Jon came down on her, cupping her face and kissing her so deeply, she could feel her cunt clench a few times in want. Her body was melting against his, the sound of meeting lips filling her ears.   

Oh, how she loved this; loved the feel of Jon's hard body scrapping against hers, loved his warm and strong hands kneading her flesh while she allowed her fingertips to scratch his back, loved how his eyes bore down on hers as they kissed and kissed until the need for air forced them apart. Something poked at her belly, something hard and hot. Curious, her hand came to down to wrap around its girth.   

Jon hissed, tearing his mouth off of her, and Sansa tried to retract her hand in an instant. Jon stopped her, however, by clasping her hand and enveloping it with his own.   

"Did I do something wrong? Did I squeeze too hard?"  

Jon growled, _growled_ , and, for the lack of a better word, smashed his lips against her. No doubt he had just bruised her lips. Sansa could not say she minded it much.   

"Baelor's, it's been only little over a moon..." Hands strayed over the curves of her waist, across the stretch of her stomach, tickling her belly button, sometimes. Sansa squirmed underneath Jon's touch delightfully, entranced by the feel of his skin, as if he had put a spell on her. Sansa felt something prod at her entrance, and with a start, Sansa realized it was Jon's manhood slowly going up and down the gap of her sex. She moaned at the contact, spinning her hips in tandem. Jon supported his weight with a hand against the bed, his other taking hold of his cock and gently poking at her.  

She placed her hands against Jon's collarbones. "Please, be gentle, Jon."    

Another kiss on her lips placated her. "I will be, little dove. Bite on my shoulder if the pain becomes too much."   

Sansa nodded, giving her husband permission to sheathe himself inside her. The intrusion of his cock was a strange sensation as Jon slowly started to fill her up. So far, it was only an uncomfortable stretch of her walls. Sansa had never taken herself in hand, finding the act vulgar and scandalous, so she knew not what to make of the object piercing her virtue.   

Then, a slight ache came upon her, a peculiar pain, like...the feel of a cut finger? Or a particular painful shedding of her moon's blood? Sansa knew not how to put an explanation on it. It was not as villainously painful as she was made to believe, however. Still, a whimper of discomfort escaped her lips.  

"Does it hurt, sweetling?" Jon stilled inside her, leaning in to shower her with little pecks on her lips.  

"Yes and no...I-I don't know, yet. Give me a moment to adjust to your..." Feeling playful, Sansa smiled coquettishly at Jon. "...impressive size."  

His eyes darkened further, if that was possible, bordering on jet black instead of royal purple. The ache had faded, and Sansa bobbed her head, signalling Jon to proceed.   

Jon's hips tilted forward more and more, plugging her inner walls with his thick cock, until she felt his pelvis. He was fully seated inside her. And no pain nor soreness plagued her mind anymore.  

"By the gods, you're tight, Sansa..." Jon growled again, a hand coming to cradle her face, his thumb barely above her eye as he swiped it across her skin tenderly. His face split into a grin. "Can I move?"  

"Yes..." She sighed rapturously.   

Jon rolled his hips once, twice, letting her grow used to his cock still, his pace soft but experienced. Gone was the pain, now replaced with a pleasurable scratch each time Jon's cock went in and out of her cunt. Jon was making love to her so tenderly, she nearly wept in joy.   

Again, he kissed her slowly, swiping his tongue over her lips, asking for entry. She opened up her mouth without question, allowing her tongue to twine with her lover. _My beautiful lover, so sweet and handsome for me_.   

His thrusts never increased in power, as gentle as ever. Sansa loved the feel, loved the care and caution he poured into their coupling, but something inside her greedily wished for more.   

"You can go harder, Jon...I can take it now." She moaned, panting into his ear. Her husband only grunted, grabbing her hips and putting more strength in his plunges. "Ah! Jon...! O-oh! That feels go-AH! g-good!"   

Their bodies met quite loudly, wet claps of skin against skin echoing across the room. Jon had come to tower over her body, both hands planted at the side of her head as he thrust into her with vigour. Sansa, in turn, dug her fingernails into Jon's forearms, grounding herself as she was being...being...  

"Fucked, Sansa...that's the word you're too embarrassed to use." Jon grinned, as if he had read her mind. Sansa looked to the side, her face suddenly hot with abashment, but Jon turned her face to him again. "Ah-ah-aah." He tutted, burying his hand in her bronze hair. His eyes were blown wide, dark with lust and satisfaction. "I want to see your pretty face redden in pleasure as we fuck. Wrap your legs around me, Sansa. Let me feel those luscious legs around my waist."   

She did as she was told and threw her legs around Jon's middle, crossing her ankles behind his back. Sansa did the same with her arms, coiling them around his neck, bringing their bodies as close together as possible; she could feel the rugged hairs of his chest tickle her nipples and breasts, his beard rubbing over her throat and most of all, the muscles of her cunt throb and pulse as Jon _fucked_ her into the furs of their bed. She was enraptured.

Another peak crept over the horizon, threatening to tilt her world on its axes again. "J-Jon...I'm about t-to..."   

"Peak for me, little dove." Jon kept thrusting into her, relentlessly now, grunting into her ear, his tongue coming out to swipe across her earlobe before nibbling on it. His member engorged inside her. Jon was about to peak as well, judging by his laborious grunts. "Scream out your pleasure, clench around my cock and peak..." One thrust. "...for..." Another thrust. "...me."   

The third thrust had Sansa arch her back as she tumbled over the edge, another peak tearing through her body. Her muscles seized and clenched as she mewled, gripping Jon's forearms tightly as she convulsed in utter bliss.   

She felt hot fluids gush out of her, her inner folds constricting around Jon's member. It proved to be the final push for his own peak as Jon slammed himself against her pelvis one more time before she felt another source of hot liquid coating the insides of her cunt. He rutted a few times into Sansa, wanting to hurl the rest of his seed inside her no doubt. The feel of Jon's hot seed spurting into her channel made her moan in delight. Gods, it felt incomprehensibly good having him spent inside her.   

Their breathing came out harsh. Jon still loomed over her, leaning above her, his brown locks forming a curtain around them. Unable to contain herself, Sansa clasped his face and crashed her lips against his, moaning as she kissed her husband after their amorous coupling.   

Jon dropped his weight on top of her carefully, pinning her against the bed. She loved the weight, embracing him fully, arms and legs coming to snake over his waist and around his muscled torso.   

Their kiss was short but heavy, and Jon wrenched his mouth off and came to rest his forehead against hers, grinning voraciously.   

"Your eyes tell me that you're quite satisfied, Sansa."   

She tittered, blushing fiercely, yet letting her lips pull into a bright smile. "Yes, Your Magnificence. It was so wonderful and passionate, and everything I wished for on my wedding night."  

Nodding, Jon came to turn them over in their bed, dragging her atop of him. Sansa let out a squeal in surprise, tittering all the while before she rested her head against his sweaty chest. Jon's hand came to settle upon her backside, tracking the slope of her arse with a groping hand. "Are you certain you're satiated...?"  

Sansa could see it in his eyes that Jon still had some energy left in his body to go another round, or two even. Truthfully, she felt pleased deep down into her bones, a well of content inside her heart as she reminisced what just transpired. Sansa had lost her maidenhood, and was fully within the folds of womanhood. Her body still hummed in dimly satiated eagerness, still sang each time Jon's touch lingered over her back, her bottoms, her breasts.   

A certain boldness invigorated Sansa, and she languidly crawled up and claimed Jon's lips this time in a searing kiss. Sansa had her fingers around her husband's cock before they broke apart, stroking it to life again. "Well, if my lord husband wishes for more, then I can do little else but comply."  

Jon's grin was feral and hungry as he clasped the sides of her face and claimed her lips for a kiss. "The journey north will take quite a while..." Breaking their kiss, Jon's eyes stared deeply in hers, set on fire with lust, she could tell. "I'll teach you a hundred ways..." He slotted their bodies together, no room for air to be found. "...how a man can please a woman."  

Oh, Sansa was most definitely curious what all these 'ways' entailed.   

Sansa was happy to be under Jon's tutelage.   

And learn all the little secret pleasures of the flesh. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned. And with what, a meagre 3.5k update? Outrageous. Honestly, I wrote this in the span of a few days when a sudden burst of inspiration claimed me. I remember someone asked me if Rhaenys would be featured again. Voila, some Rhaenys! This isn't the end of her little politicking in Dorne, though. It will be expanded some more. Consider it a...stepping stone for what's to come.

**SUNSPEAR**

**RHAENYS**

 

The heat of the Dornish sun bore down on Rhaenys gently as she laid on a divan, taking refuge underneath the shades of the soft oakwood pavilion, iced water stored next to her in a bucket for her refreshment. Her skin glowed in pleasant warmth, flesh tingling as small fingers of sunlight crawled up and down her collarbone. Sometimes, those fingers would take a more solid presence, curling up in the red silk of her dress.   

Rhaegar slept peacefully against the swell of her breast, soft puffs fawning over the hollow of her throat. She carded a hand through his brown strands of hair and caressed his back, scratching her boy's scalp lightly. His little groans of content made him sound like a purring little kitling, and her heart surged at the adorable act, affection for the quiet boy swelling each time he wriggled against her.   

While Rhaegar was happy to sleep at his half-mother's side, Aegon delighted in having his silver hair wet and damp from playing in the pool, scooping up water and throwing it around with a toothy smile. The other children, true- and baseborn, kept him company, indulging his whims and wishes, playing with her son to his heart's content. They knew he was a dragon prince, a son of the Holy Valyrian Emperor. Whether out of duty or not, they knew to keep him happy in any way possible.   

It had been little over a moon since her arrival here in Dorne. Planky Town was a small port and Rhaenys landed there with little fanfare. A cohort of Dornish spearmen had come to welcome her and her children, led by Granduncle Lewyn himself. The oldest and most indulgent of the Martell princes, Granduncle Lewyn embraced her heartily and welcomed her into the arms of Dorne, leading the van alongside her personal retinue of Dragonguards. Aegonax had taken to the waters of Dorne's shores. The arid climate of her mother's ancestral lands did not endear her mount very much.   

Rhaenys had fond but scarce memory of Dorne and of Granduncle Lewyn, him and his dark whiskers, cocoanut brown eyes and winning smile. Oft, he and Uncle Oberyn, free-spirited stallions that they were, fared the seas in search of adventure, their ship taking them as far as the shores of ruined Gogossos and the Jade Gates due east of Qarth. They would always share tells when they visited the capital.   

Dorne and the Empire always had the closest bond compared to all the other Sunset Kingdoms. Love had blossomed between two realms who once upon a time had a bitterly entrenched enmity between each other.   

When Emperor Daeron II had taken a Martell for his consort, several imperial princes after him followed the precedent, beginning the Targaryen-Martell romance. The love between Mara Martell and Daemon Blackfyre was immortalized in songs and plays and Emperor Maekar I took Lady Dyanna Dayne as his wife, continuing his lineage when no Targaryen sister was present to do so. The Valyrians and Rhoynar shared history and blood in more than one way.   

Aside from history and blood ties, trade flourished freely between the ports of both realms. Sour lemons and olives and dates were delicacies the aristocracy of the Empire enjoyed immensely, and in turn, the Dornish had a high demand for spices and silk, Qohorik steel and wood and most of all, the fruits of their ancestral lands, the sweet orange. Indeed, Dorne and the Holy Valyrian Empire had made their marriage work out quite well. What started as hatred had finally turned to friendship.   

Rhaenys recognized Lord Arthur Dayne and his lady wife Delonne's young daughter Alissa putting sunflowers in her beautiful boy's hair, Aegon shaking his head and huffing in annoyance as he tried to pull out the flowers, his playmates laughing good-naturedly. Her son found the Dayne girl quite captivating. And with reason.   

She looked every inch a child of Old Valyria with her long white hair braided and those light blue eyes. Aegon probably saw something of himself and Dany in her. Egg always looked at Dany with awe, so his infatuation with a girl looking Dany was not surprising.   

Other children made use of the great mazes, giggling quietly as they hid from the seeker, the entire place one big playground for them to enjoy. More than once, Rhaenys heard a servant admonish a child trying to climb the works of the various Dornish rulers. The private retreat of her uncle was full of life.  

The Water Gardens was not only a palace for Dorne's children. Some young couples walked about the gardens, arm in arm as well, throwing shy smiles and little glances at each other, cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling. The Fowler twins were keeping Ser Gerris Drinkwater happy, whereas the Drinkwater twins entertained Davith Fowler, shooting the other pair challenging smiles.   

Amusement was in abundance for Rhaenys, whether it was watching children play or drama unfold between hot-blooded youths. Her indigo eyes had caught a particular couple engage in cavorting.  Tyene and Daemon were sitting at the edge of the pool, feet dabbling in the waters while they leaned into each other intimately.   

Their lips spoke of sweet whispers, eyes only for each other instead of keeping one on the children as they were commanded to do. Rhaenys could not fault them. She knew what love did to people. The world around ceased to exist, except for the person who held your heart.   

Quite painfully, her sweet brother's laughing eyes greeted her, eyes that always teemed with life and cheer, but Rhaenys shifted in her divan and perished the thought as soon as it made home. It was unfair of her to think of Aegon as such, as the man who held and only held her heart so firmly, even if Jon always assured her she had every right to see their late brother as her truest love.  

Aegon would always remain a part of her, a part where she bled passion and love, but that part no longer held sway over her thoughts as much as it had in the past. When she was younger, not yet knowing what it meant to wear responsibility, Rhaenys loved passion and freedom. Now, she wished for solid ground beneath her feet, for the earth to welcome her roots. That irrational love for freedom was buried and left to rest in peace. Jon was her future, her safety, the rock of her life now, solid and steadfast.  

"Enjoying the Dornish weather, Your Magnificence?"   

Rhaenys opened her eyes and sat up straight while still cradling Rhaegar, her cousin Princess Arianne greeting her sight. Arianne's sensual voice chimed like a harp, dark eyes squinted narrowly and looking at her through her thick eyelashes with fondness.   

"Arianne," Rhaenys simpered, rearranging Rhaegar so he would sleep on the divan while Rhaenys arose. "I've been in Dorne for almost a sennight. This is the first time I've seen you. It's bad manners to keep your cousin in the dark about your whereabouts, and more so if that cousin happens to be the wife of the most powerful man in the Known World."  

Arianne smiled and took a seat next to her on the divan, running a hand through little Gar's locks. Rhaenys did not miss how she side-eyed Ser Daemon Sand. "Father had need of me in Sunspear. Your arrival did alarm him greatly. It's not a regular event we Dornish people deal with, dragons roaming out in the skies."   

"I did send a missive beforehand telling of my visit." Rhaenys probed herself straighter. She leaned in for a small kiss on the lips, a little way of greeting between old friends and intimate kin.   

"That does not make Aegonax any less intimidating." Arianne replied in a humoured tone. Her Dornish cousin was good with her tongue, both in orthodox and unorthodox ways, but Rhaenys was quicker than that, her mind settled to handle affairs the moment she stepped inside the Principality of House Nymeros Martell.   

Hence why she picked up on Arianne's rather off-kilter behaviour immediately. She had been a little jittery ever since she came to the Water Gardens. Rhaenys was pretty sure it had to do with the Allyrion knight currently frolicking with Uncle Oberyn's bastard daughter.   

"What did your father wish to discuss with you, then?" Rhaenys prodded, knowing that Arianne did not expect her to further pry on the matter. It could not have been anything major, she reasoned, or anything at all. Rhaenys had made for Sunspear in only a five-day ride, and as soon as she stepped on the red marble floor of the Old Palace, her uncle Prince Doran himself opened his arms to her, welcoming his beloved sister's only daughter with polite courtesy, words of business flowing between them like water.   

Arianne waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing of import."   

Rhaenys slightly narrowed her eyes at her cousin. Mother and Uncle Doran's relationship was...complicated. She never spoke of her eldest brother much, never as much as she spoke about Uncle Oberyn at least, only ever sharing how solemn as a sentinel Uncle Doran always was. Arianne was more like her father than she wanted to admit, even if she liked to be compared to Oberyn. Both Ari and Doran could play the coldly aloof kin well. Rhaenys would have none of that.   

"Ser Daemon seems to be enjoying himself quite well with Tyene, wouldn't you agree?" Rhaenys remarked as she laid back, careful not to disturb her little boy. Her barb had the desired effect, for Arianne jolted in her place and threw a not-so-subtle glance at the comely knight of Godsgrace.   

"He can do as he likes. Daemon and I have been distant for a long while now. I suppose a Martell bastard is more to his tastes and status. Father thought so when he ended things between me and Daemon." Arianne said, her fingers wrapping around a stray thread of her sleeve, tearing it out bitterly.   

"All right, look at me, Arianne." Rhaenys instructed, tired of this 'woe is me' act. Her cousin pulled up her pretty and brooding face and did as she was bid, eyes blown and curious and fragile. Her heart ached a little at her innocence. "I know you and Daemon had a...torrid history, full of Dornish passion and all, but you have to let go. Since the moment you two were born, you could not ever hope to be together. He is baseborn, and you're a princess of House Martell. It would not do for you to mope around for so long."  

Arianne let out a scoff. " I wish Father didn't force Daemon to distance himself from me like that. I hoped he would have fought more for me. Alas, he didn't. It opened my eyes. Let him have Tyene if he wishes, I could do better. Right now, though, I have no pressing need to be wed. Quentyn already has a runt of his own, sired on that Yronwood girl he always blushed and gushed about. Trystane also still breathes and is about to reach the age of majority. I'm sure Father has already looked around for a suitable wife for my littlest toad of a brother. House Martell will not die out with me. I got plenty of heirs to pick."  

"None you can call of your own flesh and blood..." Rhaenys chirped lightly, peeling the skin of a sweet orange and popping a piece in her mouth. "You're Uncle Doran's eldest daughter, and yet, here you are, unwed and childless still. You're more than suitable for marriage, beautiful and quite fertile with those hips and teats." Arianne quirked her eyebrow, amused, but Rhaenys continued before her cousin could answer with that incessant little retort of hers about not being a broodmare. "Trust me, when you have a child of your own pressed against your breast, nothing else in the world could ever give you the same satisfaction. I wonder why I still haven't seen a husband by your side."  

"It's because I do not desire one. I just..." Arianne bit her lip, frustrated. "I just wish for something more in life than mere duty obliging me to marry and breed." Arianne sighed. "Daemon made me feel, breathe and live. Is it so much to ask for passion in my marital bed? I long for a husband who can set my loins on fire."  

"Is that what you truly desire, Ari?" Rhaenys wondered out loud, suppressing the urge to roll her eye at her cousin's drama. "Passion? I can understand that. Believe me, more than anyone, I can, for I had such similar notions as well."  

"Had?" Arianne came closer, picking her son up and holding him close to her breast, Gar's head cradled in the nook of her throat. Her beautiful cousin smiled down at Rhaegar, full of meaning as she stroked his hair with a hand. Rhaenys knew the meaning. "What changed?"  

"Truth be told, I still harbour a great deal of passion inside me. I'm part Dornish, after all. Passion runs as thick in our veins as honour runs in Northerners," Arianne agreed with a smile, nodding. "but..." and Arianne's smile lessened in the blink of an eye hearing the word but. _Nothing someone says before the word but really counts._  It did this time, Rhaenys thought.   "...over time, I changed. Passion no longer holds such sway over me as it once did. I've married and given birth to a beautiful son. I had to learn to temper my fervour. Shape it into something else, something strong and reliable for my sons and husband. Jon has no need of a wife ruled by her heart alone. Aegon and Rhaegar are in need of guidance and protection as well. House Targaryen is in need of caretakers, not fire-eyed dreamers. So, I had to strike a balance. Lust comes and goes like the ebb and flow of the sea. Love, on the other hand, is forever."  

"So, what would you have me do then? Suffer a loveless marriage? Birth children, rise to my throne eventually and live my days with regrets of never chasing my dreams?" Despite being her elder, Arianne had very little experience with worldly truths, to her bemusement. Her innocence and thirst for passion stemmed from her content life, one without any sort of ill fates and tragic deaths.   

Dorne had never seen war the likes Rhaenys had. It had withdrawn during the War of the False Dragons after Uncle Oberyn received a grievous wound during the Battle of the Disputed Lands. Only a scant few Dornish spears remained to help the Targaryen loyalists, the rest flooding out to bring her uncle back to Sunspear. And now, five years after the end of Daemon Brightfyre's bid on the Obsidian Throne, some relations needed mending. Rhaenys remembered a few Councillors and how they brooded over Dorne's retreat. Now, an opportunity was presented to Rhaenys, one she could not let slip through her fingers.  

"Come with me." She offered. Arianne looked perplexed. "You know for what reason I've come here. Jon has expressed his desire to establish the Sunset Kingdoms as his tributaries. I've come here to receive Uncle Doran's oath of fealty. Jon desires to continue his lineage, my lineage, and so, he has begun to...gather consorts, if that's even a proper way to describe it."   

"You mean to make Dorne a vassal of the Empire? And have me serve as a concubine? I think not, dear cousin. My pride will not allow for that." Arianne frowned. The indignation was hard to miss. Dornish people were next to passionate also a proud people, independent and free like birds, or so they always styled themselves.   

"Dorne won't serve as a mere vassal. A tributary of New Valyria has more meaning. It comes with its own boons. I have yet to discuss this matter with Uncle Doran in greater detail, but I am confident that he can be convinced. We've always kept good relationships. This would change little between us. Besides that, you seek adventure, do you not?" Rhaenys smiled, a finger running over Arianne's cheek. "What is it you desire? Pleasure? Power? Prestige? I can give you that and more. So much more. Come with me and become one of Jon's consorts. You will see so much more of the world. Dorne is your home, but the walls of this place can only keep you content for so long."  

Arianne was not convinced, but, a spark of interest did ignite within the almonds of her eyes. "Nothing ever comes without a price. You would have me bow to your husband?"   

"Jon is a man the likes you've never witnessed, my dearest." Her lips came to Arianne's ear, voice dropping at a low tone. "By the time you've seen him, you will beg to be of service to him."   

Arianne would happily trade the sanctuary of peace for the thrill of passion. She may act proud, but Rhaenys knew her through and through. A fire burned inside her bosom. Her fierce-tempered and hot-blooded heart desired lust and love like it was blood running through her veins. Rhaenys could use to that to her advantage.   

"Do you know why I have yet to marry, Rhae?" Arianne said back, arms coming to slot around her slender frame, breasts squeezing as they touched. "It's not only because of something as trite as not wishing for a dullard of a husband and a boring marriage." Her cousin gave a coy simper. "It's quite wicked."  

"Do tell then, sweet cousin." Rhaenys rasped back, meeting Arianne's eyes.   

"After I was forced to end things with Daemon, I suffered from a sickness of the mind, a terrible malaise that left me cold and desolate. Days on end, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating. You see, a slow descent into dismay had begun. A spiralling, a falling. I wished for an escape. To forget about my lingering feelings for Daemon, I turned to wine for a while, but that never helped. So, I took it a step further. I travelled to Lys..."  

What was she getting-  

Oh, _oh_...  

Arianne made a noise, a sound coming from the depths of her throat, like the purr of a lioness. "I indulged in the most debauched of feasts, taking men and women to bed so I could forget about Daemon, about Father and Dorne and my future duties. I've committed sins for a sennight, and I loved it. Once, I even took three men at the sa-"  

"All right," Rhaenys pressed her finger against Arianne's mouth, smiling innocuously despite the topic they were speaking about. "that's enough vulgarity in the presence of my son."  

A tanned shoulder rose and fell in a shrug, teeth shining as she smiled as Rhaenys reclined in her seat. She knew Arianne could summon a wanton streak, but this was something else entirely.   

"Areo and his lackeys tailed me all the way to Lys and found me in a pillow house. You should've seen the thunderstorm that was my father's wrath. When he calmed down, he gave me his ear and I told him that I acted out of spite and heartache. Since then, he's never thought to mention the subject of marriage. I suppose he feels a well of shame for my...indulgences. I care not for his comforts. He saw to it that I lost my love, now he has also lost the chastity of his daughter..."   

Arianne was spoiled goods, essentially. To think she accepted the touch of three men in a lustful embrace. The obscenity was enough to make her blush! Well, no matter, Rhaenys thought. Jon was not a man who was put off by the lack of chastity from his lover. Rhaenys had not been a maiden when she came to Jon's marriage bed either. The situations differed vastly, but still.   

Besides, maidens were a bore. They required care, soft touches and consideration, as if they were made of YiTish porcelain. Mewling and whimpering during the whole ordeal of getting bedded. As she was thinking about it, Rhaenys began to feel some pity for her husband.   

He had a penchant for being a bit on the rough side when it came to bedding her and Dany. Jon liked some fight and wrestle during a good fuck. On the other hand, maidens did have a tightness to them, and claiming a maidenhead is something every man looked forward to, some sort of prize to be claimed.  

Well, Jon had to settle with something a bit...looser.  

But on the other hand, he did have the gain of bedding someone quite experienced.   

At the very least, Arianne was properly broken in.  

She knew how to handle herself in bed.

Jon would find that an attractive feature in itself.

**Author's Note:**

> So, there isn't much to say that I haven't said in the start notes, only the ages of the chars involved. I respect canon too much to tinker with the ages, so I just fast forward in time. Also, the underage tag is mostly for Myrcella, since she's 16, but eh, that's only in our world, on the other hand.
> 
> Jon: 22  
> Dany: 21  
> Rhae: 24  
> Margaery: 22  
> Sansa: 19  
> Myrcella: 16  
> Bella: 22  
> Arianne: 29  
> Val: 24  
> Ysilla: 19


End file.
